Stubborn Love
by hannah.jpg
Summary: In the year 3015 T.A., Lothíriel is sent to Minas Tirith to be kept safe from corsair attacks in Dol Amroth. Éomer, Third Marshal of Rohan, comes to the city to plead for the Steward's alliance. An unlikely friendship blooms and wavers through seasons both sweet and bitter.
1. Prologue: I Was Cleopatra

_3 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

"...Lothíriel?"

A voice broke through her daze of thoughts, and she blinked, almost startled to see the man sitting beside her in the solar of her father's house, despite being sure he had been there for the last several minutes. Éomer was gazing down at her with affection and warmth as his large hands tightened 'round hers, and his next words were in earnest.

"Will you be my wife and queen? I cannot be happy except with you by my side."

The palms of her hands were sweaty, and the ache in her heart grew. Lothíriel had almost been expecting this from him; after all, did they not love each other? Had not the last four years been spent exchanging letters, hoping that the war might end that they could be wed in peace?

But instead of all-consuming joy and happiness, as she had foolishly expected in her youth, Lothíriel merely felt raw. Her uncle was dead, her cousin was dead—those wounds gaped in her chest. Dol Amroth, her home, was in ruins, and Minas Tirith practically identical. Her spirit was bruised from the last weeks of turmoil, and while taking in the sight of the man she loved next to her sparked the barest flicker of hope in her breast, it was not enough.

"N—no, Éomer. I cannot." The words were a whisper, but for the effect that followed she may have shouted. Éomer's brows creased together, the light in his eyes darkening in an alarming manner. He dropped her hands, as if they burned him. Lothíriel immediately felt the loss of warmth from him, clenching her hands together tightly in her frock of white for mourning.

"Éomer, I—" she tried, but the words lodged in her throat.

"No, do not explain. I understand." His words were clipped, and for an agonizing moment she saw the full measure of hurt flicker in his green eyes. Then he stood, towering over her. "I apologize if I have offended you. Lothíriel, I—well, I suppose it hardly matters," Éomer said bitterly. "Good day to you, madam." And without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

The flowers he had brought were left on the settee next to her, the sun streaming onto them through the windows above. They blurred as her eyes filled with tears, and she wept.


	2. When the Day Met the Night

_8 August 3015 T.A., Minas Tirith_

"He usually bites, you know."

The girl jumped and whirled around at the sound of his drawling voice, and Éomer could not help smiling. Smiling was rare for him, but the sight of this young Gondorian girl romancing his stallion, and quite successfully, too, was an unexpected sight in this unfamiliar and unfriendly city. And certainly a better one than he'd been expecting, straight from a disastrous interview with the Steward.

"I—I am sorry, my lord," she squeaked. "He has not bitten _me_ , that is; I have been very careful and—"

Éomer strode further into the stables, noting out of the corner of his eye as the girl pressed her back against the stall door as if in fright. Which he could hardly blame her; she was not tall, and he knew his own intensity. "I shall tell you a secret," he said, leaning down as if to whisper. The girl's eyes glittered hugely as she stared up at him; they were the purest shade of grey he had ever seen. "He already ate three of the stablehands' fingers today, so he must be satisfied. That is the reason for your success."

She blinked, and her brows furrowed together. "You are teasing!" she declared, with all the plainness and indignation of youth. Éomer bit back a laugh.

"Do you think so?" he asked lightly, as if in dare.

"Of course! A horse eating the appendages of stablehands could hardly be kept a _secret_."

Éomer could not help himself—he laughed. There was something about this girl that reminded him of his sister, and he could not help liking her. After a moment, he asked, "What is your name, my lady? For you must be a lady to have gained entrance to the Steward's stables."

Her lips were pinched together. "I am Lothíriel, my lord."

"Oh, there is no need to my-lord me! I am foremost a marshal of my king, and a poor one at that." He betrayed more bitterness than he meant, and disliking bringing shadow between them, he continued with a grin, "Do you live in Minas Tirith, Lady Lothíriel?"

"Ah—no." Her cheeks were flushed as her eyes met his with determination. "My home is in Dol Amroth."

"Then why are you here?" Absently Éomer stroked Firefoot's mane, his eyes not leaving Lothíriel's forming frown.

"Dol Amroth is not safe; corsairs and pirates attack almost daily. My—my father sent me here."

"I see. And who is your father?"

Her lips twisting into a grimace, and he heard her heel digging into the ground as she said quietly, "Prince Imrahil."

Éomer blinked in surprise. "Oh— _ah_. _Princess_ Lothíriel, then."

"You do not have to call me a princess!" she burst forth. "Certainly not if I am not allowed at my own home!" Éomer saw with some astonishment that her eyes were shining with tears now, and she turned her face away, as if to disguise her own sorrow by giving her attention to Firefoot.

He did not wonder that she was homesick; who would not be? He could admit to feeling similarly himself in this strange city of stone. But he did wonder how old this girl was, to be bearing such a burden. She seemed so young! But as he looked again, Lothíriel was not as young as he first supposed—she was no girl, certainly, but nor was she a woman. Her face still bore some of the roundness of childhood, though there was an undeniably fresh beauty just emerging. It was an awkward stage where Éowyn still hovered, and he felt a surge of regret that yet another innocent woman be caught in the wiles of unrest.

"Do you ride very much?" he asked without thinking. Lothíriel blinked in astonishment at this, before her lips turned upwards into a stunning smile.

"Indeed, I do!" she said with vim. "'Tis my one true joy—when I _can_ go, that is." Here she appeared suitably shame-faced, and she hastened to add, "There are few guards available to accompany me. I am often disappointed."

Éomer again was reminded of Éowyn, and he quickly offered, "I can take you, if you like."

"But I do not know your name, my lord," she said, her voice quivering with uncertainty. "I cannot leave the city with a stranger."

"Ah! Allow me to rectify that." Éomer swooped into a low bow, liking the sound of her burst of giggles. "I am Éomer, princess. _Ah_ —Marshal Éomer, if you like, but I will respond to nearly everything. You can call me a stodgy old git if you like; my sister does."

"Oh! You are the nephew of your king." Her eyes were wide as saucers as he straightened.

"Aye."

"Are—are you here on his errand?" Lothíriel's expression betrayed only frank curiosity, and Éomer paused before answering, trying to keep the emotion from his voice.

"Aye."

"I have heard your name before," she said, her head tilting to the side. "I suppose that must mean that you are trustworthy."

"If you mistrust me, I will summon some of my riders to accompany us. 'Tis an advantage to being a commander, you know."

"But—" Her hesitation was wavering; a blind man would have seen the half-hidden eagerness in her eyes. But she seemed intent on finding reason to refuse. " _Why_? Why are you so kind to me?"

"Why should I not be?" He pretended affront, and another smile bloomed on her face.

"Well, it is very _odd_ , I think. We have only been acquainted these last ten minutes."

"I have a sister," Éomer said. "I would do the same for her." Lothíriel's grey eyes were searching upon his face. The tips of his ears burned at this unfamiliar scrutiny, and he offered a smile.

"I would be very pleased to accept," she said at last, returning his smile with a joyful beam. "Oh, happy day! Thank you, my lord—er, _stodgy old git_."

Éomer burst into laughter.

"I think that I shall call you by your name," she said, and her smile crinkled the edges of her eyes. "It is far simpler. Let me change into my riding clothes quickly and fetch my horse—can I meet you by the Sixth Gate in half an hour?"

"I shall be there, princess."

He was rewarded with a final smile before she left through the stables doors, and he could not help thinking that his day had improved drastically. Of course, it had begun so terribly that perhaps the odds were with him… Éomer gave Firefoot a final pat, and went about making his own preparations.

* * *

In her excitement at the prospect of escaping the city, Lothíriel was early to their meeting place. The scarce household her father kept in Minas Tirith did not allow her much in the scope of freedom, and while Boromir and Faramir were always willing to take her riding when they could, her uncle kept them away on business more and more often, and so she was usually left on her own. And the idea of asking her stoic uncle to accompany her on a pleasure ride brought such amusement that she was laughing to herself when she caught sight of two men approaching, leading horses to the gate.

It was Éomer, of course, and a man of Rohan she did not recognize. That would be his cautionary measure, and she was quick to leap up from the wall where she had been sitting, unwrapping her mare's reins from a nearby post.

"I was worried we would arrive too early," Éomer said with a grin as soon as they were in earshot. "I did not realize princesses of the Gondorian variety were so punctual!"

"I am the _only_ princess in Gondor," Lothíriel could not help pointing out with a miffed air. "My standards are, by default, my own!"

"A shame, really. I looked forward to meeting more."

"Are there princesses in Rohan?" she asked curiously.

"Nay. My mother was the only one for many years before she married my father." The two men stood beside her, and she noted Éomer's keen interest as he scrutinized her mare. Lothíriel immediately stroked Wilwarin's chin, as if in defense from any fault-finding.

"She has fine lines, your mare," Éomer said at last. "And very well cared for. What think you, Éothain?"

His companion grunted in response, and Lothíriel surmised from his distant expression that this was not how he wished to spend his afternoon. "Weak ankles," Éothain said at last.

She was not certain if she should laugh or take offense, but Éomer evidently knew—he laughed loudly. "Do not take Éothain's criticism to heart, princess," he said with a conspiratorial smile. "He can find fault even in a _mearas_. I think she—what is her name?"

"Wilwarin." 

"She appears to _me_ perfectly well," Éomer said, and his eyes were twinkling as he reached out to ruffle Wilwarin's ears. "A handsome lady, too. Now what do _you_ think, Firefoot? Perhaps you know mares better than any of us!"

Lothíriel hid a giggle behind her hand even as her face flushed scarlet. What teasing! Éomer's handsome stallion was now nudging his nose forward, sniffling around Wilwarin's neck as the mare stood perfectly still. At last he gave a decisive—or derisive—snort, and Éomer chuckled.

"He says she'll do," he said, grinning at Lothíriel. "Shall we follow your lead, princess? I'm afraid we know little of Minas Tirith apart from the route from the Gate to the guesthouses in the Citadel."

"Of course," she said politely. With introductions complete, they mounted, and Lothíriel lead them southeast through the winding streets. Éomer fell in beside her, tall in his saddle. He had the most admirable seat she had seen in a long time, she reflected privately—his back was straight, his shoulders relaxed, and the reins loose in his hand. Firefoot reacted to every nudge of his master's knees. Clearly living in the land of the horselords was beneficial to one's riding; but really, Lothíriel could hardly be surprised.

"Where are we off to today?" Éomer asked after a moment.

"I thought we might go into the mountains," Lothíriel said. "There is a fine riding path that overlooks the city. It is quite nice; one of my favorite trails. I have not taken it since Faramir was here last, though I have very much wished to."

"Faramir?"

"My cousin. The youngest of my uncle's sons."

"Ah. Denethor's son, then."

"Indeed."

There was a silence, and Lothíriel noticed Éomer's eyes looking anywhere but at her. At length he inquired, "Is Faramir very much like his father?"

"Ah—it depends on whose opinion you seek," she said. "Faramir is warm, but my uncle is…not. Boromir—the elder—is like his father in many ways; they are both proud, but while Denethor's pride is of his own making, Boromir loves the people of Gondor and he is proud of his heritage. Faramir takes after his mother, at least in looks; or so my father explained to me. She was his sister."

"I see. We have heard of Boromir in Rohan, but not of his brother. That is why I am curious."

"Faramir is kind to me when he is in the city," Lothíriel said. "He always makes time to take me riding, or even just to talk to me. He understands most, I think, how lonely Minas Tirith can be." She cast Éomer a glance, relieved to see his humor somewhat restored. "You hoped that there were more princesses of Gondor," she teased. "I confess I feel the same! To have equals to speak to sounds a wonderful prospect!"

He gave a bark of laughter. "I can understand! Were it not for my cousin and sister, the dreariness of the world might overcome me."

"Tell me of your sister," Lothíriel said boldly. She had mostly forgotten that this man was quite older than her, certainly larger than her, and held an earned rank. But Éomer showed no offense at the order, smiling warmly over at her.

"She is quite like you, princess," Éomer said. "Young and full of life. Éowyn came of age...four years ago, I believe, and yet she still has impetuous starts. But she has a good heart; a wild heart."

Lothíriel was surprised at this, and exclaimed, "You call her young and yet she is twenty-and three!"

"Nay, she is merely twenty years of age!"

"But you said she came of age—"

"At sixteen," he interrupted. "In Rohan, we are considered full-grown at sixteen. She is now but twenty."

"Ah," Lothíriel said, satisfied with this explanation. "In Gondor, we come of age at twenty. It does seem quite old to _me_ , for if I was in Rohan I could now be my own woman. What an inviting concept!"

Éomer glanced at her then; a guarded, searching look. "You are merely sixteen?" he asked, his tone perfectly level. She could not help feeling indignation at this; as the youngest of her siblings, the subject of age was a tetchy one with her. So she lifted her chin and said,

"Yes."

" _Ah_."

They had arrived at a gate which led into the mountains from the Fifth Circle. Éothain came up behind them as they drew rein, and a small boy appeared, leaping over a low wall to bow before them.

"My lords and lady," he squeaked. "I would use my meager strength to open the gate for thee, should thou be gracious enough to grantest me a token—"

"Oh, do hush, Baldir!" Lothíriel interrupted with a laugh. "Do you not recognize me?"

The boy straightened, pushing dark hair from his eyes as he stared up at her, wide-eyed. Evidently, he had not expected her in any company other than her cousins, but he recovered his wits quickly enough. "Princess Lothíriel! Good afternoon to you!" And he bowed again.

"Who is this?" Éomer asked in an undertone. But she did not respond; she unwound a pouch from her saddle, which she had filled before departing her father's house. Baldir's eyes saw this, and he licked his lips.

"The gate, if you please," Lothíriel said primly.

The boy nearly tripped over his bare feet in his haste to open the gate. He pushed against one side of the massive oaken door with all his strength, grunting and digging his heels into the ground, until at last it was wide enough to admit a fair-sized horse. He was breathing heavily when he leapt out of the way, his gaze not leaving Lothíriel.

"Thank you, Baldir," she said, spurring Wilwarin forward to toss him the pouch, which he caught eagerly. "We will return in a few hours; do watch for us!"

"Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady!" And immediately he pulled an apple from the pouch, biting into it with the vigor of youth as the trio passed under the gate.

Lothíriel was quiet for a few moments as they mounted the trail. Once it widened to allow for riding side-by-side, again Éomer took a place beside her as Éothain fell behind. Recalling his question, she was quick to explain.

"Baldir's father makes himself ill with drink," she said, keeping her voice from trembling despite the strong feelings she nursed in her heart. "He has no occupation, and his wife is dead. The man sends his children to beg or steal—he cares not. I must give Baldir coin so that his father does not beat him, but I also give him food because the money he takes home only buys drink for his father."

Éomer did not respond straightaway. She caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. His expression was contemplative as he glanced at the trees 'round them. "I see," he said at last. "Can the magistrates do nothing?"

"They have tried," Lothíriel said miserably. "And _I_ have tried. The man is careful to leave no marks, and he has no qualms against lying."

There was a growl in his throat. "A bastard if there ever was one."

"Yes, it is so."

"You are kind to look out for Baldir, then."

"Hardly kind," she protested. "For I can only better his situation, I cannot change it. I cannot feed his sisters, either, for his father would take note and Faramir prophesied that he would start demanding their food as well! And that would do far _more_ damage!"

Éomer nodded in agreement. "It does seem likely."

The path, dappled with sunlight which streamed through the trees, rose sharply upwards. Lothíriel urged Wilwarin on, determined to reach the outlook before Éomer decided to turn back. He matched her pace, and they laughed as they crashed through the trees together. Lothíriel's spirits soared; outside the city she was _free_. The pangs of loneliness were left far behind, her hollow aches of fear for her family, her yearning for home…

The clearing of trees opened before them, and Lothíriel dismounted. A natural outcropping of rock jutted forward towards the city below. They tied their horses to a tree, just hearing Éothain approaching, and with a shared grin they made for the rocks.

It was one of her favorite places. Lothíriel sat down, her legs dangling over the edge as she peered forward, drinking in the beautiful sight. Below, the white marble of Minas Tirith sparkled in the sunlight and the fields of the Pelennor stretched in an expanse of squares and lines which made farms and crops. A silver, snaking line wove across the scene, winding south where before disappearing amongst distant hills. The looming mountains beyond were gloomy as always, but thankfully too distant to fear. Éomer took a place beside her, sighing.

"It is astounding, truly."

His voice was quiet, pensive. She fiddled with the end of her braid for a moment, then bravely asked,

"Why did you come to Minas Tirith?"

Éomer frowned, though not at her—his eyes remained on the plains below. "My cousin and I thought—we _hoped_ —that the steward might renew the Oath of Cirion. The unrest in the world grows, and in such times, we must look to our allies."

Lothíriel bit her lip. "I—I suppose Denethor refused."

He glanced at her in surprise, before his lips formed a handsome smile. "Were you eavesdropping, princess, or are my thoughts so obvious to you?"

"Neither," she said primly. "But I know my uncle rather well. He mistrusts nearly everyone, you know, even those who ought to be his allies." Lothíriel paused for a moment, then added, "For what it is worth, and I imagine very little—I think your desires are quite correct. Were I the steward, I would renew the Oath in an instant."

Éomer laughed, startling several birds nearby into taking flight from their leafy abodes. "Were you the steward, I would have been quite startled to enter your presence," he teased. "A young girl only sixteen with Gondor in her hands? I might have fainted!"

She felt her cheeks grow warm. "Many lords have come into their inheritance in their youth," Lothíriel pointed out indignantly. "Why would it be so surprising—"

"Peace, princess! I only jest." His green eyes were clear in the sunlight. "I daresay you would make a fine steward."

"Er—thank you," Lothíriel returned instinctively, unsure if he was still teasing.

There was a discreet cough behind them, and Éomer turned quickly to glance at Éothain. Then he sighed, and said, "I daresay we have lingered long enough. My men and I have been invited to sup with the captain of the city tonight; he keeps early hours, and we cannot be late."

Lothíriel hid her disappointment behind a smile as Éomer helped her to stand. The skin of her hand tingled strangely at his touch, and as soon as he turned away, she rubbed her palms together to relieve the sensation.

The ride back to Minas Tirith was less exciting; knowing she was returning to an empty home made her heart ache. Éomer likewise was silent, but she could not guess at his reasons. The sun lowered, the dappled light in the forest darkening to a gold and the trees around them growing eerie. Soon the gate which Baldir manned appeared ahead of them, and he opened it for them with many bows. Lothíriel did not fail to hear Éomer barking to Éothain in their language, and the clinking of coins. The ache in her heart turned to a glow at this marshal's kindness, and she felt her cheeks grow warm.

"I thank you for your company," she said at length. "It was a relief to escape the city. You were too kind to offer yourself, truly."

Éomer's smile flashed brightly in the dimming light. "It was no sacrifice, princess; I assure you."

"When do you depart for Rohan?"

There was a silence following her question, and he answered, "Tomorrow morning at dawn. There is no other business to detain us."

Lothíriel could not help feeling disappointed. Fortune gave her companions to keep her from despairing loneliness, and fate took them away…

"Perhaps I may return," Éomer added, as if sensing her unhappiness. She managed a smile for him.

"I hope you do. And I shall be here, I expect." They were stopped outside her father's house, and Lothíriel dismounted as an ostler hastened out of the gate to take Wilwarin's reins. As she was wearing trousers, she could not curtsey to Éomer and so felt strange, and settled instead for a nod. "Thank you again, Marshal Éomer," she said properly. "I wish you safe travels."

He nudged Firefoot forward, reaching down to pick up her hand, which he brought to his lips. "And I wish you all the luck in the world," Éomer said with a heart-stopping grin. "Good evening to you, princess."

Her hand burned for many hours afterwards.


	3. Little Talks

_16th October 3015 T.A., Minas Tirith_

"A letter for you, my lady."

Lothíriel's heart skipped a beat. Could it be—? Hastily she assured herself it could; the courier from Dol Amroth had arrived not two days ago, and Father would not have sent another so quickly. She picked up the parchment from the silver tray with trembling fingers, and the page bowed and left her alone in her solar.

An unfamiliar seal, a rearing horse set in green wax. An unfamiliar hand, bearing her name. She laughed aloud—the risk she had taken to write Éomer had paid off! He had responded!

She broke the seal at once, casting her eyes eagerly upon Éomer's words.

 _Princess Lothíriel,_

 _Firstly, I will admit to being confounded upon the delivery of your letter. My éored happened to pass the messenger on the road; when he hailed me, I could not think who might be writing me from Gondor. You surprised me, but I am no less grateful. I am sure that you brought me laughter for the first time in several days, and my men have been looking at me as if I have lost my mind. If that is true, I shan't mind one bit—but should you write me again, I will seek privacy instead of reading at the communal fire in the evenings, which is unfortunately where I am forced to write at present._

 _Let me first answer your questions. Our journey lasted two weeks from the time we left Minas Tirith until our arrival in Aldburg. It is a fair road, mountainous but full of beauty. I confess I find the sight of my homeland as we cross the Mering Stream the best sight of all._

 _Your next question is, and I quote exactly, "What is your home like?" That is a very difficult question to answer, and I hope you know it! Or perhaps you asked, fully aware of its difficulty and only meaning to torment me. If so—very funny. Your similarities with my sister prevail. But I will answer as if you merely intended kind curiosity._

 _Aldburg is a fortress situated upon a hill. All the city is contained in its stone walls, and the seat of my ancestors lies in the center. I was born here, though after my parents died I lived in Edoras with my uncle for the remainder of my upbringing. When he named me Marshal and returned to me my lands, I wondered if I could be master of a place I had somewhat forgotten. But now I feel only gratitude, for Aldburg is the home of my heart. So, you ask, what is my home like? It is an ordinary house in an ordinary city, but it is the only place I can find true peace._

 _Your third question I find most difficult to answer. Did you ask to know of my daily life knowing how dull it is, or how little I wish to bother you with unhappy details? I prefer you to smile rather than frown, and although I will not have the pleasure of witnessing your reaction to this letter, I can hardly set out knowing I will cause you to frown._

 _The life of a Rider is a difficult one. While I do not deny the enjoyment of riding with Firefoot for long days at a time, the reason why we do so is bitter to the taste. The only respites from the dullness of endless patrols on an unforgiving landscape are a skirmish here, a clash there. Enemies close in around us, and it is our duty to keep them from entering our lands. It is not unlike how you described in your letter how your brothers patrol the seas on their ships—except, of course, that we ride instead of sail._

 _My true pleasure is seeing my cousin and my sister. Such visits are rare, as Théodred patrols a different part of Rohan and Éowyn cares for our uncle in Meduseld. But they bring me joy, and when I am in their company the days are less weary._

 _For your boldness in requesting that I tell you of my life, I now ask you the same. I wish to know of Dol Amroth. And what of your life in Minas Tirith while your home is unsafe?—how do you fill your days in 'exile,' as you so poignantly termed it? To avoid too much sadness in these letters between us, my final request is that you tell me a silly story, and I shall guess if it is about you or one of your brothers. Then if I meet them one day, we can already have a reason to laugh between us._

 _Until next time,_

 _Éomer, Marshal of the Folde, etc._

Lothíriel was in raptures. Éomer's letter was everything she had wished for—jovial and kind and obliging and teasing. She could not have asked for better! Already her affection was inclined to this tall, bearded man from the north of whom she knew so little... There was no hesitation to sit at her writing desk and pen a response at once.

 _To Éomer, 'Mere' Marshal as you once said, with which descriptive I am in disagreement—_

 _I am glad to hear of your safe arrival. There are rumors in Minas Tirith of bandits who roam along those roads; but then again, I must suppose that they dare not attack soldiers in numbers such as your men. I also thank you for your response; I declare myself satisfied! This day, at least, I am less lonely._

 _Dol Amroth is beautiful. I am sure that no city can rival it. I understand that Minas Tirith has a reputation for beauty, but those who say such things are usually biased. Minas Tirith is stinky and crowded, and fresh air is rare unless one leaves the city gates. Dol Amroth is often graced with breezes from the sea, especially in the palace high on the cliffs—it is harder to find fresher, sweeter-smelling air anywhere, I think. It keeps the city relatively clean, and as the weather is always mild, one may roam the streets quite comfortably during the entire course of the year. Because of this, the markets and trading are spectacular! At least, they were when I was younger—now the threat of corsairs and unrest have disrupted most sea-bound trading. Sometimes my brothers command ships which accompany merchant ships bearing goods, so as to deter pirates._

 _There is very little to describe of my life in Minas Tirith, and much you already know. My brothers have their duties at sea, and mine is to stay safe, tucked away inland away from the sea and my family. I sometimes wonder if this is because my father fears the city coming under siege and being overrun. If this does happen, all my family, as the prince's relations, will naturally be put to death, and I am the safeguard against the line of the princes being obliterated entirely. These are terrible considerations, and I feel the weight of them keenly! I try to trust in the strength of my city and in the Swan Knights. If they are defeated, it will be at great costs to our enemies._

 _I did not begin this letter intended to come to such a gloomy point, and I apologize. You were quite right to insist upon a silly story! Here it is, to end on a happier regard:_

 _When one of my brothers or I (remember, you must guess the culprit!), was quite young, we set out exploring my father's flagship while it was in harbor and he was in the palace for various meetings. I am afraid that upon such invasions from princes and/or a princess, common sailors can do very little against such impertinence. There was a matter of a childish wager against who might climb the rigging the fastest. Of course we have much experience around ships anyway, and so this was certainly no new thing—until one of us became tangled in the ropes. This unfortunate person was caught by the ankle, and was forced to dangle head-down for several minutes until a rescue could be made, and naturally lost consciousness. Father was suitably annoyed by this, but as there was no real harm done (apart from some embarrassment), the punishment was mild. In fact, I think now he would laugh at it, as I certainly would._

 _Now, here are the things I wish for you to tell me in your next missive. Firstly, of your cousin and uncle. Secondly, of your favorite places in Rohan. Thirdly, your favorite Rohirric holiday—we know little of your customs in Gondor, and I am curious. And lastly, I want the entire letter to be written in rhymes._

 _Yours most sincerely,_

 _Lothíriel of Dol Amroth (even if she has not set foot in her home for nine months, and anticipates her exile lasting many more)_

And she sent it with hope in her breast and a spring in her step.

Month after month this correspondence continued—much varied in topic, but always similar in lightness. Every four weeks, the messenger from Rohan brought a thick packet to Lothíriel and she smiled to herself for many days afterwards, hearing Éomer's voice echoing in her mind and imagining just how he would deliver his quips were he there with her. Though her days were slow and dull, when the next letter arrived she felt that the weeks disappear in a moment.

Éomer, for his part, was growing more enchanted by his Gondorian correspondent. As interesting and companionable as she had been upon their first meeting, she only grew in his mind with her quality, her skill in writing, and when their conversations turned solemn—her insight. He could hardly believe she was so young, for when _he_ had been her age, he had been a tempestuous youth, little interested in anything besides horses and swords. He appreciated her interest in Rohan, and nearly a year and a half after they had met in Minas Tirith, he included a charcoal drawing which Éowyn had done of Edoras, hoping that it would please Lothíriel, which he was pleased to know that she did.

 _I thank you most for the illustration you included!_ she wrote _. Did you draw it? I can hardly believe if you did! I think Edoras looks a charming place, and should I ever be free of my exile, I would immediately set out to discover the world which I am missing. I would visit all of Rohan, for I become all the more interested by your wonderful descriptions._

 _It was also well-timed in its delivery; your most recent letter arrived on my birthday! I am sure you did not intend it as I did not tell you the day. But now I am eighteen years of age. I feel no different. My yearnings and my heart are the same as ever._

 _My brothers were kind enough to send gifts for my birthday as well; I shall bore you with the details. Elphir and his new wife sent several yards of fine Dol Amrothian silk—very lovely with silver embroidered doves upon pale blue. Erchirion sent a knife, which a most unsettling message about the dangers of Minas Tirith (I discarded the note—it was dreary and contained no new information, anyway). Amrothos's gift was unexpected: he somehow procured a pattern puzzle made from birch bark, cut into pieces to assemble into a replica of my favorite of my father's ships, Pearl of the Sea! (Ship names are always a bit silly, perhaps later I will tell you more). I have been busy following the instructions, and though I lack eternal patience that would make me a truly skilled maker, it fills many hours of my days._

 _Now I come to the most important tidings. You will rejoice with me to hear that our friend, the gate-warden Baldir, has been freed of his father. The man fell from a rooftop several days back while drunken with wine, and he died soon after. Baldir and his sisters, waiting for their father to return, came to me when he did not. I was more than happy (though a whit wary), to host them, but it satisfied me to feed them and give them proper clothing. When the magistrates came to give the news of his death, the children all cried from relief—I confess I wept, too._

 _But a more difficult duty came to me next, for it was my responsibility to find them another home. They have no other relations in the city, and know of no others in Gondor. I wished, with all my heart, to keep the children with me—but I am not yet of age, unwed, and alone. I knew I could not. I finally decided to take them to a lady of Linhir, also dwelling in Minas Tirith for safety. Her only son was killed three months ago fighting corsairs, and her grief is immense. I thought that fostering children might draw her from her unhappiness—as soon as I introduced them to her, I knew I was correct. She smiled for the first time in many days, and the children already love her. I can visit them whenever I like, and so it is well settled all around!_

 _Do feel free to compliment me on my wisdom. I think I did rather well._

 _If you would be so kind to tell me of your birthday, I can see about sending a rendition of Dol Amroth._

 _Yours as Always,_

 _Lothíriel of No-where_

 _P.S. Those ships—I nearly forgot! Here are some names: Sentinel of Destiny, Maw of the Deep, Ulmo's Wrath, Pride of the Valar (though of course there is no proof of that); Horizon's Call, The Lady Nimloth, Sail to the Stars, Umbar's Bane, Amroth's Revenge, Uinen's Bosom (I never quite understood that one, as I would think her bosom would be the sea itself, and not a ship), and last and certainly most concise—Death. _

That letter affected Éomer differently than her earlier correspondences; it was several days before he understood _why_. Why he could not stop thinking of this princess, or why his heart always seemed to beat faster when he remembered her face. Why his admiration of gentle compassion was growing, and why somehow this woman had become his standard for nobility and character. Why he squinted at the twilight on clear nights, trying to see if he could see the shade of her eyes somewhere in the sky—

Well. He supposed he liked her. More than usual. And he wondered at it.


	4. But Not with Haste

_30 July 3017 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Lothíriel nibbled at the end of her quill, unusually hesitant of what to say. The request of Éomer's which she was responding to had read thusly: _I do agree with the wisdom of your decisions, and I compliment them. But now you must tell me a weakness of yours, for I fear my opinion of you growing too high. Then what would I do?_

He had been teasing, she was sure, but she could not _not_ reply to it. With a sigh, for she cared little for more introspection than was usual for her, Lothíriel re-dipped the quill and made her best attempt.

 _I have many shames, most of which I will not put to parchment (imagine if one of my brothers found this letter before I sent it! My mortification would never end). But I will admit to you that I now recall our first meeting with embarrassment. I wonder how I could have been so bold to be speaking to and petting the horse of a man of Rohan without his express permission! We in Gondor know little of your land, but we believe it is custom to await permission before touching one of your hallow steeds. But I conveniently forgot (or ignored) this tidbit, but of course, I cannot say if this rumor is true. You must enlighten me._

 _I was terribly forward that day, wasn't I? I hope you may forgive me, in time, if I prove that I have matured._

 _In return I must ask that you inform me of your own flaws. If you have none, do invent one so that I might feel less foolish._

That was the end of that letter, and Lothíriel sealed it off and sent it by way of a servant to a messenger. She wondered, for many days afterwards, if she had spoken _too_ plainly; she certainly had no desire to alert Éomer to her weaknesses! However highly she thought of his character and that he would not be led astray by anything trivial, the keen desire to earn his admiration remained.

The moment the return messenger hailed the guards at the gate of her father's house, Lothíriel rushed from her chamber to the courtyard (as had become habit), and tried (unsuccessfully) to appear composed as she accepted the letter, thanking both the messenger and the guard rather clumsily before running (inelegantly) back to her chamber. Her heart was pounding fast as she tore the seal.

 _Lothíriel_ ,

 _I thank you for your set down in reminding me that I should not have asked you of your weaknesses. I realize now that it was a very personal question. But for your frankness, I will oblige and answer the same._

 _I have a temper. I am not proud of this_ — _though I was when I was younger. It is a heritage from my father, and during my early youth I perceived it as the only quality I had of his, to remember him by after he died. I did not understand the consequences of such impulsiveness until I had matured some years; my uncle was pivotal in teaching me the foolishness of my mistaken belief, as was my cousin. Since then, I have struggled nearly daily to control this temper. Self-mastery serves me well; I am a better commander and a better man._

 _Should I also perchance mention my inability to forgive? This flaw troubles me less; I have learned that it is easier to not find offense in the first place, so that I have no one to forgive. Quite wise of me, do you not agree? (See, I can search for compliments with just as much subtlety as you!)_

 _To further discuss the day we met_ — _I did not think you forward at all. I thought you charming. Were you not so, you might have beheld me in an unfortunate case of temper (brought on by the Steward. Thankfully I have grown quite cool about the entire ordeal). And to confess plainly now, I am grateful now for your boldness, for had you been wary, I might have lost the opportunity of gaining a friend._

 _I suppose it is custom not to handle another person's steed without permission, but it is not_ so _stringent, and certainly one who does not really know better would not be berated for it. Firefoot rarely enjoys such gentle kindness as you showed him, and sometimes when he is in a mood I wonder if he is pining for you._

 _Alas! It must be a short letter today. I have just been informed that the messenger is saddling his horse. Do not feel that my lack is reason to write less back to me_ — _I would be sorely disappointed._

 _Yours most sincerely,_

 _Éomer of Rohan_

 _P.S. I realize I did not at all mention the weather once_ — _how remiss of me! It is hot here. Dare I assume the same for Gondor? I will prepare myself for another set down if not._

Lothíriel was laughing as she finished. Somehow, despite the months they had been conversing, Éomer's humor still surprised her at times. Perhaps it was residual bias from all the men she'd known in her life; too many were stern and driven by duty, and it was only within her family that she witnessed humor combined with strength. While she did not doubt Éomer's commitment to being Marshal of Rohan, she might have expected him to be laughless like her father's captain, or proud like her uncle, or harsh like the Lord of Pelargir she had met a few weeks earlier. But she knew Éomer better—and she was grateful for it. Anyways, she had no desire to keep up a correspondence with the Lord of Pelargir or Captain Farad.

Her reply was sent posthaste, and she returned to her waiting with little patience. Boromir came to the city, took her out on two rides before he was sent back to Osgiliath, and she received a letter from her father during the middle of August, surprising her.

 _I will be the first to inform you of the birth of your nephew_ , he wrote. _Elphir and Nessiel have been blessed with a son. I am sure they will be sending you a letter with further details when they can._

 _My dearest daughter, I am sorry you must be away from Dol Amroth at this time. Still we are attacked several times a month, and you are safer in Minas Tirith, if not happier. Would that I could spare a son, to give you company. But we form plans to beat the Corsairs at their heart very soon, and if we are victorious, we will welcome you home with the love and affection we have saved these last months._

 _Be safe; our hearts are with you_.

Elphir did send a note, but it was short, mostly reiterating what their father had written, and clearly in haste. Nessiel's enclosed letter was much more informative, and upon reading it Lothíriel found her heart aching to be missing such an important time for her family! She loved babies—at least the few she had ever held—and she wanted to hold Alphros in her arms something awful.

Lothíriel did give the news to her uncle, in an awkward, formal setting in Merethrond. He graciously congratulated her on behalf on her family, and promised to send a gift to Dol Amroth as soon as he could.

"Perhaps you may return home soon, should the threat of our coasts subside," Denethor said in his deep, resonating tone. It was so close to what her father had said that Lothíriel was taken aback for a moment. Stammering, she agreed, and took her leave of him as quickly as she could.

Walking back to her father's house in the sticky, hot sun, Lothíriel remembered a whisper exchanged between her eldest brothers she had overheard many years ago, _"If the Steward would bolster our troops, we would not be running patrols dawn 'till dusk; we could launch a full attack and end it forever_ —"

She wondered if her uncle was to blame for her predicament. But that was nothing she could ever know, and she decided to lull her thoughts with Éomer faraway instead, and her tentative peace returned.

* * *

 _7 September 3017 T.A., Meduseld_

"Béma, Éomer, you always did have high sights!"

Éomer chose not to be incensed, instead grinning like the fool his cousin and sister surely already thought him to be. They had escaped for a private conversation in Meduseld's kitchens, which were empty—supper had ended many hours earlier and it would be their last chance to speak before Théodred departed for the Westfold in the morning.

"I do not know what you mean," he said, drinking deeply from a goblet of mead.

"Do not be coy, brother, it does not become you!" Éowyn said with a laugh, her rich voice filling the chamber with liveliness. "I saw you reading a letter— _her_ letter, I cannot but guess—with an expression of what could only be _foppishness_."

"I happened to look over his shoulder last night when he was writing," Théodred added, grinning at Éomer as if in challenge. "I never expected such sweet inanities from _him_."

"Sweet inanities?" Éowyn asked, now grimacing in a show of disgust. "Éomer, _really_!"

"I can write to a woman, if I wish. There is certainly no law against it," Éomer said lazily. "And anyways, that is hardly what we ought to be discussing—"

"But this is far more interesting," Théodred interrupted. "Tell us of her. Ought we to wish you well?"

Éomer's face burned with embarrassment at this, and he hoped in the dim light it would not be noticed. Éowyn had leaned across the table, her eyes bright with interest, and Théodred—while subtler in his expression, was obviously suppressing laughter.

"You needn't wish me well," he said at last. "She is young yet; merely eighteen, and not yet of age in Gondor."

"She is younger than even _I_!" Éowyn said in astonishment.

"And somehow, she has more sense," Éomer could not help teasing. "I have never heard of Lothíriel knocking out any training master with a wooden sword." This jibe, referring to Éowyn's unfortunate mishap a few weeks earlier, put his sister to blush. But his slip-up did not go unnoticed, either.

"Lothíriel," Théodred said slowly, making a show of deep thought. "A Gondorian woman! I confess myself all the more stunned. Are the women of the Mark so ugly to you, cousin?"

"No," Éomer said stoutly. "And her blood has little to do with it. Were she fair-haired and a poor sheep-herder's daughter, I would still admire her."

"And whose daughter is she?" Éowyn asked curiously.

"Never you mind." He drank again, half-wishing this inquiry to end and half-wishing his sister and cousin could share in his happiness—they would like Lothíriel, he was certain, and she would reciprocate such affection easily.

"When can we meet this mysterious lady, then?" Théodred asked next with a grin. "I can speak to Father about sending you back to Gondor for some reason or another, should you wish to bring her back to marry."

Éomer laughed. "I could not act with such poor manners!" he said. "I dare not tell you whose daughter she is, but I assure you that any kidnapping of her person would worsen our relations with Gondor into nothing short of hostile."

Silence met this, and Éowyn tilted her head slightly to Théodred, asking out of the corner of her mouth though not lowering her voice, "She is important, then. Whom do we know in Gondor that has an important daughter?"

"I have paid Gondor too little attention to give an answer to that," Théodred replied, not removing his shrewd gaze from Éomer. "Denethor has no daughters, I believe."

"He does not," Éomer said with a smile.

"What of the princes? Surely they have sisters or daughters. I have not heard of a Prince of Ithilien, have you, Éowyn?"

"Nay. Only of—somewhere in the south, I believe, though I cannot recall the name. It is something Elvish."

Théodred gave a grunt of disappointment. "You shall have to tell us, Éomer, else we will be forced to ask around and bring _more_ suspicion upon you, as if your constant, mysterious correspondence is not enough."

"Your guesses are quite close," Éomer said. "She is the daughter of a prince, but I dare not tell you more. Think not I have acted unwisely by not making her identity and our correspondence known."

Éowyn frowned, and Théodred's eyes darkened slightly. There would be no more inquiries, then, Éomer guessed—for they three all shared an opinion regarding the matter. They were not safe, Théoden was not safe…and as the threat from Isengard creased, fear of spies grew with it. This reminder dampened the mood between them. But that was well, for their meeting had not been to discuss any princesses of Gondor.


	5. The Fairest Sun I'd Ever See

_30_ _th_ _October 3017 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Lothíriel tucked Éomer's latest letter into her stack with a sigh, retying the ribbon carefully before shutting them away in her writing desk. She had re-read it several times, despite having written and sent a response the day before—

 _—I made the folly of telling your name to my cousin and sister some weeks ago. The only end to their teasing was Théodred's departure for Helm's Deep and my own for Aldburg, but I should not wonder if I can hear their laughter even with the miles between us. I can only hope you are subject to just as much jibing, for it would not be fair for me to bear it all myself—_

It set her nerves aflutter, and she was wringing her hands together as she left her chamber, deciding that she really must find something to do to keep her mind occupied elsewhere than on a certain Marshal of Rohan…

Daydreams and happy thoughts of Éomer invaded all too easy with the otherwise lonely life she led. But that day she was surprised, before stepping into her father's gardens for a short traipse to be hailed by a doorward.

"Your brother's standard has been sighted from the road, my lady."

Oh! Oh! She barely contained her excitement to appear composed, but was completely useless for the next hour as she awaited her brother to travel through the city. Company! She need no longer anticipate another lonely day—

And better tidings were to come, for as soon as Amrothos dismounted with a grin despite his weary eyes, he told her at once that he was to take her back to Dol Amroth with him in seven days' time.

"To Dol Amroth?" Lothíriel asked in surprise as his horse was led away, and his guard began to disperse towards the stables. An odd feeling was filling her breast, but she did not understand _why_. Had she not dreamed of returning home for the last two and a half years, ever since setting foot in Minas Tirith that awful first day?

"Yes, to Dol Amroth," Amrothos said, looping his arm through hers and half-dragging her into the house. The reality of a fortnight of travel hit her nose then, and delicately she wafted a hand around while indelicately scrunching her face, but her brother only laughed. "You are pleased to see me, I am sure of it."

"Of course I am!" she assured him with a smile. "But why may I now return to Dol Amroth? What has happened?"

"Very little, and that is why—the Corsairs were beaten quite well three weeks ago, and they have returned to their caves to nurse their wounds. Father does not expect further coordinated attacks for a year, at least. Perhaps two."

Lothíriel considered this information in silence as Amrothos steered her towards the kitchens. It was fortunate indeed that Dol Amroth was safe again, safe enough that she could return. There was no need for the ache in her chest! But its root was quickly discovered; would any messages be carried from Rohan to Dol Amroth? She had never known of any messengers to ride that route. Oh, dear—to gain her home but to lose Éomer!

"Ah, _luncheon_." Amrothos had a way with women, and it so happened that all the cooks and sculleries were women. Within two minutes of his entrance into the kitchens, he was forcibly sat at a low table and plied with many fresh goods from many blushing maids. Lothíriel sat beside him, her thoughts elsewhere, and absently refusing any victuals for herself.

"It has been a long road," he told her through a mouthful of fresh bread. "I hope you have been riding, else you will be very sore, I am afraid."

"I ride when I can," Lothíriel said. "I can go within the city walls by myself, but I cannot leave Minas Tirith for wilder paths without a companion. If anything, Wilwarin will suffer more than I."

"I will take you out while I am here," Amrothos said, clearly impressed by his own graciousness. "Have you seen Boromir of late? Or Faramir? Father entrusted me with a message for them."

"Nay, they are not in the city. Boromir was in residence not a month past, but Denethor sent him back to Osgiliath."

"Hm."

Unable to keep herself from asking, Lothíriel blurted a moment later, "Does Dol Amroth often—ever—receive messages from Rohan?"

Amrothos was taken aback by this inquiry, even pausing in his eating to glance curiously at her. "Every so often," he said at last. "Father has had correspondence with the King of Rohan in the past; I do not believe it continues, or if it does, I know not about it."

Lothíriel frowned.

" _But_ ," her brother added. "I am sure you can send a letter here, and the messengers here with carry it on to Rohan."

Of course! She had not thought of that. A deep welling of relief made her sigh, and bemused Amrothos more.

"Whom do you write in Rohan?" he asked. "Have you a secret lover?"

"Very funny," Lothíriel said coolly, willing herself not to color. "I can have friends in Rohan without there being a lover involved, Amrothos. I have met many interesting people in Minas Tirith. I wish to keep up my correspondences, that is all."

"Do not worry for it, then—your letters will be carried." And thankfully, he did not press the subject further.

* * *

Amrothos's arrival occurred with the onset of autumn in Minas Tirith. His business on behalf of their father was duly completed, as was Lothíriel's packing, and on the seventh day since he arrived, they departed with his guard and turned south.

It was two weeks of continuous travel, but the prospect of seeing her home and family after so many lonely years kept Lothíriel's spirits high, as well as the solace of having sent Éomer a brief note stating her change in residence. His next letter would find her in Dol Amroth, she was confident of that.

Dol Amroth was, of course, beautiful as ever—the approaching winter made for mild sea breezes and comfortable riding, and when the high marble pillars of her home came into view from around the mountains she felt hot tears spring to her eyes. Already she had forgotten that empty house in Minas Tirith.

The following days were filled with all the peace and pleasure in the world that she might have hoped for. Her family she found well, and she was ever loth to leave their company. Many rides were taken alongside the cliffside, to her favorite sites of her earlier years; often with her brothers, and sometimes alone. The only pang in her heart, the only darkening to her happiness—was how Lothíriel missed Éomer more than ever.

Letters were due to arrive every six weeks now, and the painful waiting for the first was almost more than she could bear. This agony did not go unnoticed by her father nor brothers. It did go unmentioned by Imrahil, but his sons did not have the delicacy to refrain.

At long last, Éomer's letter was delivered to Lothíriel one morning at the beginning of winter, and while she was not the only one at the breakfast table to receive correspondence, it was the only one mentioned.

"Is that from Rohan?" Erchirion asked in interest, leaning towards her from his chair as if to catch sight of the handwriting.

"Yes," Lothíriel said primly, angling it away from her brothers and keeping her voice level despite the hammering in her breast. "I have a friend and correspondent in Rohan, Erch—are you so surprised?"

He merely grinned, and Amrothos was swift to cut in. "I have already asked if this mysterious writer is her lover," he declared to the table at large. Lothíriel flushed at this, and even their father looked up from his own messages with surprised curiosity.

"It is _not_ ," she insisted at once, and she pressed the letter into her skirt where it could be hidden.

"But who could it be?" Elphir asked lazily with his son balanced upon his knee, and then he grunted—his wife's elbow met his ribs, and there was an awkward silence as he turned to be reprimanded with an admonishing stare.

"I am sure it is none of our concern," Nessiel said, mostly to him, but her keen gaze met Amrothos and Erchirion as well.

"I would like to know," Imrahil interrupted mildly. "I confess myself interested in recent tidings from Rohan. How do they stand?"

Her face bright red, Lothíriel broke the seal of the letter under the table, the crinkle of the parchment sounding loud in the silence of the dining chamber. She quickly read Éomer's missive, disappointed to have such an unsatisfactory reading of it, before looking up to several expectant and inquisitive eyes.

"Rohan is in little present danger," she said. "The winter snows prevent large scale attacks, and so there is a reprieve during this time of year."

"Your correspondent is clearly well-informed; can it be any but the king himself?" Amrothos said, with a laugh at his own joke. Erchirion chuckled as well, and Elphir got out a half of a laugh before his wife elbowed him once more and his laugh turned to a grunt of pain.

"If you will refuse to give me a moment's rest," Lothíriel snapped. "I will tell you of his identity: Éomer of Rohan, Second Marshal and nephew of King Théoden. Are you satisfied? His knowledge of the safety of Rohan can scarcely be surpassed, I think. You should not doubt him, nor his honesty to _me_."

This passionate speech was met with a variety of responses. The first to speak was Imrahil, who had quickly hidden his astonishment behind a mild frontage. "I thank you for telling us," he said, not specifying which part of her revelations he was grateful for. "Send Éomer of Rohan our greetings, if you wish." And so Lothíriel knew that her father took no issue with this correspondence, and she gave a sigh of relief.

"Yes, give him our greetings," Erchirion said at once. "We are _most_ interested, and would like to know more of this _Marshal_." He exchanged a glance with Amrothos then, and they both withheld laughter.

"I can tell you anything of Éomer that you wish," Lothíriel said tartly. "I have no secrets regarding our conduct. I am not ashamed to know him."

"To know him, or to _know_ him—?"

But that teasing was beyond what was reasonable, and Imrahil's sharp reprimand silenced Amrothos's teasing on the spot. And much to Lothíriel's gratitude, the remainder of breakfast passed quickly and with little more effect upon herself, except for the yearning to read Éomer's letter more thoroughly with no witnesses.

By midmorning she was able to escape for a ride, and alone on the bluffs of the cliffside and cloaked against the chill wind as Wilwarin grazed nearby, Lothíriel eagerly read the letter once more.

 _To Lothíriel, now again Princess of Dol Amroth—_

 _I received your most recent letter later than normal; heavy snowfall in the mountains prevented the messenger from reaching Aldburg. I was uncommonly anxious, as in the winter I have little else to engage my thoughts. We are unable to ride out for the snow, but thankfully there is little danger from enemies who likewise cannot or will not leave their hearths. Still, when I did receive it, I was exceedingly grateful to know of your long wished-for return to your home. I have worried on your behalf of your lonely life in Minas Tirith, but it seems it has not repressed your spirits entirely. That is my greatest relief of all._

 _I will admit to being disappointed in the increased wait between letters now. But your happiness is worth the inconvenience._

 _Winters in Dol Amroth, by your description, I can only judge as being pitiable! How do farmers grow their crops without snow to moisten the ground? How does one fill their time when it is cold but there is no snow to go a-sleighing in, nor to build forts and make-believe sieges and defenses? (That was a particular favorite of mine and Éowyn's when we were young.)_

 _Despite the invariable discomforts, I do enjoy winter. It is a wonderful respite from skirmishes, though now that my attentions are free from outward danger I must give them to the issues of lording. Already I have held a day of judgement for the citizens of Aldburg. I cannot quite like it, for I am away too often to truly understand their issues here. But I accept the trial of audits and paperwork with relative serenity, and with greater concern for your past loneliness. For in these days without my cousin and sister and as Lord by myself, I understand the same, or very similar isolation keenly._

 _How do you fill your time, now that you are restored to your birthplace? I cannot help but imagine the life of a Gondorian princess—sitting prettily upon a high throne, dispelling judgement to her people. In your case, it must be without your father knowing, and that amuses me more. I have learned not to underestimate your sense of mischief. I still laugh whenever I recall your story of the instance when you drew a picture of your family on the backside of an official decree. Were you here, I would beg you to do the same on my paperwork, and the work itself might be less dreary._

 _I would also like to know more of your family. Whom are you most alike? With whom do you differ most? Which brother is your favorite? What of your mother—if it is not too sensitive a topic, I should like to know of her._

 _Yours as always, and keenly hoping that you are as happy as you ever wished—_

 _Éomer_

Lothíriel clutched the letter to her breast, smiling a broad, silly grin up to the sky as she closed her eyes in delight, just to feel the wonderful feelings of Éomer's care and concern for her. It had been long since she doubted that she loved him with all her heart, and the hope of that love swelled within her and filled her every limb.

Her youthful infatuation for the handsome marshal from Rohan had deepened into a real understanding of his character, admiration for his kindness and goodness, his selflessness, and his strange but gratifying willingness to keep a years-long correspondence with a woman he hardly knew, despite the trials he faced in his own nation. He never once betrayed any annoyance in her letters, and the affection in them she was sure she was not imagining—and her hope that her affection might be returned bloomed into a bright happiness and optimism. Lothíriel could not be unhappy. Not today, not ever. Not with the glorious secret of her love of Éomer and his kindness for her tucked so close to her heart.

There would be time to respond to Éomer later, and so she lingered there on the cliffs with no company but her hope, sure in that moment that her affections were not in vain. And that was enough.


	6. Give Me Hope in the Darkness

_1 March 3018 T.A., Minas Tirith_

 _BOOM!_

The palace walls seemed to be shaking, and Lothíriel was jerked from her slumber, sitting upright in bed as she stared wildly around, her heart pounding.

 _BOOM!_

There were the sounds of running footsteps and shouts in the corridors. Swinging her legs over the side of her bed, Lothíriel felt around for her dressing gown and wrenched it on clumsily as she stumbled to the door.

Bright torches bobbed light around, and as she glanced around the corridor in panic she saw Erchirion, clad in his nightclothes as well, running full tilt towards their father's chamber. Imrahil exited a moment later, tugging on vambraces—already he was fully dressed. The prince was less panicked than his son but wearing a grim expression that caused cold tendrils to clench Lothíriel's heart.

"Corsairs," he announced loudly. "They are battering the harbor defense towers." There were more footsteps, and Lothíriel saw Amrothos appear, panting.

 _BOOM!_

Lothíriel nearly lost her balance, placing her hands on the suddenly-tenuous walls of the palace. But her brothers and father were unaffected, and Imrahil did not waste a moment more.

"Erchirion, assemble the Knights along the west city wall. I can barely see the ships from my terrace; the attack comes from the south. Amrothos, set sail at once to meet them in the Bay. The first four captains you find receive the same orders. Go!"

Her brothers were off. Her throat dry, Lothíriel met her father's gaze at that moment, and his expression softened. "I am sorry, my daughter," he said. "I did not mean for this—"

"Father! I have just heard—" Elphir appeared suddenly out of the darkness, Nessiel trailing behind in her nightshift, little Alphros balanced on her hip and looking around with wide eyes.

"Good, you are here." Imrahil straightened his shoulders, his jaw working as if about to say something difficult—and indeed, it must have been, for his voice shook as he said, "Elphir, you are to take your wife, your son, and your sister to Minas Tirith _at once_. Do you understand?"

 _BOOM!_

Her eldest brother's face was pale in the flickering light. "But Father—" he tried. Lothíriel saw Nessiel clamp a hand over her mouth, a sob shaking her body.

"Those are my orders," the prince snapped. "Once they are safe in the city, you may return."

"I will be more use here—"

"Go at once, boy! If you will not listen to your father, listen to your prince! _Those are my orders and you will follow them or face a tribunal!"_

 _BOOM!_

Lothíriel had never seen her father in such a state of emotion; Imrahil's color was high and his grey eyes glittered with frightening fire. Elphir turned away without another word, taking his wife's arm and steering her back towards their chambers, though there was an angry, baleful look thrown over his shoulder. Imrahil loosed a long breath as they disappeared behind a corner, then turned on his own heel and returned to his chamber, shouting for his manservant to ready the rest of his armor.

Her saddlebags were packed haphazardly, her riding clothes donned with trembling fingers (her maid was nowhere in sight—likely she had gone from her bed into hiding), and Lothíriel plaited her hair, albeit messily. But it was enough, and less than a half-hour later she was in the stables, saddling Wilwarin in the eerily empty building. Her companions came not long after—Elphir sullen, Nessiel's face stained with dried tears, Alphros whimpering, and a handful of tense Knights to be their guard on the road. Less than ten minutes later they were fleeing along the city streets, away from the shouting and fighting and towards the dark wilderness beyond the gates.

This was not how Lothíriel wanted her winter to end.

* * *

While Dol Amroth was suffering attacks from Corsairs that night, Éomer was searching every nook of his chamber in Meduseld with a dim candle, certain that somehow, he was being spied upon even when he slept. It was an unsettling, disturbing feeling, and one that his cousin and sister shared.

At last he gave it up, deciding to wait until morning. Midnight was hardly the opportune time to look for something hidden anyway, but the issue of untrustworthy servants entering his chamber during the day was greater than he liked. Éomer sat upon the still-made bed, wondering why he did not feel more tired.

The chance to return to Meduseld to see his sister and uncle had come to pass because the usual raids of Dunlendings and orcs had yet to begin again for the spring. Snow remained in the mountains, and would for many days yet, but the plains were brown, the snow melted and causing deep puddles and dangerous streams of mud. Not ideal for travel, but Éomer was willing to sacrifice to see Éowyn.

She had changed, this winter, and it worried him greatly. They had not yet been able to speak privately, but that would have to wait for the morrow as well. And so he was left with restless thoughts and fingers, and little comfort.

Well—there was _something_ that would ease his mind—

Fortunate had crossed his éored with the messenger from Gondor on the Great West Road, and Lothíriel's latest letter was tucked in a hidden pocket of his saddlebags. He retrieved it at once; angling his body around to where he suspected a spy would most likely be watching from so as not to reveal what he was doing.

Éomer stretched out upon the bed, the hearth fire and single candle casting just enough light for him to see the words. Though he had already read this letter, it brought just as much joy to him upon a second reading.

 _Éomer,_

 _I could almost be offended, really! Your dismissal of winters in Dol Amroth cuts me to the heart. However difficult winters in your land are, our sufferings here must be equal, I am sure. We cannot swim in the sea or the lagoons for the chill, and the constant rain keeps us indoors. The damp creeps inside, and the palace walls bead with moisture for weeks. Many people become ill from this—hearth fires can only drive away so much._

 _I thank you for your imagery of your duties as lord. However unfairly you think of_ _me_ _dispelling judgements (I have never!), I am sure that you are an admirable lord. But I must ask, based on my knowledge of you stealing into stables as a child and trying to ride wild horses: are you more sympathetic towards such youthful escapades which require your judgement, or are you harsher? I cannot decide which you would be._

 _You already know much of my family, but I shall answer your questions. I have been told since I was a child that I look remarkably like Elphir, which is odd—for his hair curls naturally and mine does not. Some say I have the bearing of my mother, but since I have so few memories of her I cannot say whether is true or not. Regarding temperament, I think I am most like Amrothos—as the two youngest, we have shared in many adventures together (and mischief), and we both have a propensity of laughing aloud at inappropriate moments. I shan't say more on that topic._

 _To ask me which member of my family is my favorite is terribly unfair! Any one of them would be monstrously offended to learn of whatever answer I choose, except perhaps Elphir's wife Nessiel. Which is why I would say that she is my favorite—I always yearned to have a sister, and Nessiel has many qualities of a good one. She is patient with our wild family and mothers her son with great love. Alphros must be my other favorite, then, for he is the most darling child I have ever known, I am sure. He is nearly a year of age, and smiles nearly all-day long. I like to think that I am his especial favorite._

 _Oh, dear—you asked which of my_ _brothers_ _was my favorite. Oh! How bad of me. I might say Elphir, for he is an excellent listener, or Erchirion, for he teases me the least, or Amrothos, with whom I may laugh all day long. In short, I have no real answer._

 _My mother died when I was only four years of age. When I try to recall her, I see only long, dark hair and a warm smile. Father speaks of her but rarely. A few years ago I was browsing perfumes at the market and one instantly brought her to remembrance with a terrible ache in my heart—jasmine. It is odd how our senses can remember things that we think we have forgotten. I did buy the jasmine perfume, and though I keep it wherever I go, I do not wear it. (I have dampened part of this letter with the perfume. I do not know if it will remain fresh, but I thought you might be interested—as far as I know, jasmine does not grow north of Pelargir)._

 _May I ask, in return, to know of your mother?_

 _Before I end, I wish to thank you most sincerely for your kind willingness to suffer delays in our correspondence for my being home, as well as your well wishes for my happiness. My brothers would have said no such thing, and so I must think you their superior. Of course, that is no difficult feat, for they write to me perhaps once or twice a year. It is_ _your_ _care and concern that sustain me during the darkest days._

 _All my_ (and here Éomer squinted at an ink blot, wondering what she might have misspelled, for she was not usually a messy writer) _, regards,_

 _Lothíriel, again of Dol Amroth_

He held the parchment to his nose, wondering indeed if the perfume held—it did, but only faintly. Jasmine was a new scent to him, but he rather liked it; flowery and bold, reminiscent of the hot sun. Though Lothíriel said she did not wear it, Éomer decided that it suited her, all the same. Smiling to himself, he read the letter again, and then a third time. He wondered if he would ever tire of this princess—and guess that it was unlikely. Her charm in her honesty and humor were unmatched.

His lurking danger mostly forgotten, Éomer again hid the letter in his saddlebags, yawning as at last exhaustion at the late hour caught up to him. When he slipped into sleep, his dreams were filled with a dark-haired girl and the echoes of her laugher.

* * *

If anything, the sight of Minas Tirith was more repulsive than before.

The brief reprieve of her beautiful sea home and her family pierced Lothíriel's heart keenly. When she trod into her chamber at long last, despite the exhaustion of the grueling journey, she sat upon the freshly-made bed and stared miserably at the stone walls.

The journey had been long; requiring an extra eight days of travels for the mud and floods that invariably came with the onset of spring. Tempers had been short; Elphir still resented their father's sending him away, and his wife had suffered from both fear and offense that her husband wished to be elsewhere. Their son had cried most nights, fussy from both boredom and cold, and Lothíriel had taken him as often as she could to be of assistance. But she was unhappy, too, and Alphros knew it.

A knock sounded on her door, and upon her bidding entrance Elphir's tired head poked into her chamber. "I have been to see Father's steward," he said. "There is a letter for you, and just in time, too. Had we not arrived today, it would have been sent on to Dol Amroth in the morning."

A letter? Lothíriel blinked, and her brother smiled, wafting a thick folded parchment into the chamber, tantalizing her. She recognized the seal at once. Éomer! She leapt up, her heart beating fast—she had not expected a message from him for—well, she supposed she was due to receive one. Gratitude for his constancy swelled in her breast, and she smiled broadly to flick the letter from Elphir's fingers.

"I thank you," she said loftily. "You may go, sir."

He laughed, which surprised her, and left, the door closing behind him. Lothíriel barely noticed this; she was already taking a place on the window seat, breaking the seal clumsily in her haste and eager casting her eyes upon Éomer's words—

 _To Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth and Gondor, with whom I once discussed the presence of other princesses of Gondor, to which I have now decided that one be enough, if that one be my Lothíriel_ —

 _(Now I confess I am belatedly remembering your brother's wife_ — _is she a princess, too? I must assume so. Still, I must sympathize for Gondor if there are two princess such as you. But by your description, Nessiel appears far less mischievous. A dangerously close call for your nation)._

 _In the vein I have already started, I will begin by thanking for the detail you have given regarding your family. It seems a wonderful family, and from my perspective_ — _orphaned at a young age with few extended relations (though quite good ones)_ — _I should think myself quite jealous. I would have liked a larger family. Perhaps fate will favor me someday._

 _You will be pleased to know that the perfume you included in your last letter did, in fact, reach me. It was very faint, but I quite liked it. Your mother sounds a truly lovely person. I should have liked to know her._

 _I do not mind at all your asking about my own mother. She died when I was nine years of age, and I have many memories, though all are tinged with sadness. Her name was Théodwyn; she was tall and strong, fair of hair and face and often smiling. She taught me many things in our short time together, sowing the beginnings of patience (which I conveniently forgot for many years until I was full-grown), how to darn my own stockings (I have always been notoriously hard on stockings), and to show Éowyn my fierce love without leaving any bruises (a difficult lesson for any young boy to learn, I am sure). I was very grieved when each of my parents died, but it was after my mother's death that I cried for many days. I knew and loved and respected my father, but it was Mother who had a true hold on my heart. Since my youth, I have always strived to be a good soldier to do my father proud, but a good man for my mother._

 _The snow here is still thick; we do not expect further raids for a few weeks yet. I did manage to travel to Meduseld to visit my sister and my uncle. In the light of recent years, it could be a more pleasant sojourn, but I try to be grateful for the time we do have. Truthfully the walls of my home in Aldburg and even Meduseld itself seem all the closer during the long winter months, and despite the tentative peace and duties of lordship I grate at the inactivity. I gain far more solace than you realize through your letters_ — _I am glad to know of the world beyond these walls, and the people in it._

 _Will you return to Minas Tirith, come spring? Should the Dunlendings prove less bloodthirsty this year, I would travel south again, if I could. I would know how Gondor fares, and of you._

 _Wishing you well as always, with my utmost care and concern,_

 _Éomer of Rohan_

Lothíriel's smile did not fade during the entire reading, and when she was finished she clutched the letter to her breast, sighing happily as her eyes fluttered shut. Perhaps living in Minas Tirith would not be _so_ terrible. She would have more letters from Éomer now, without delay as spring warmed the world, and perhaps he could come to Gondor again!

She could bear it, then. With these hopes, she could bear anything.


	7. How Did I Survive Before You?

_Summer 3018 T.A., Minas Tirith and Onwards_

Éomer never came.

The letters grew scarcer than she hoped, too; one in May, bemoaning her premature return to Minas Tirith following the outbreak of violence in Dol Amroth, and the next did not come until September, and it was hastily written.

 _I apologize for my absence,_ he wrote. _Forces have been attacking Rohan with such haste and fury that I cannot but suspect evil magic at work. I barely have time for sleep, let alone to return to Aldburg in search of pleasant letters of yours, which I so miss. We also found a messenger from Gondor on the Great West Road not a fortnight ago, slain. Does Minas Tirith hold well? If you are in danger, I would that you flee to safety. Do not worry for me, either. I am well. Missing your friendship, but well._

The whispered gossip of Minas Tirith, of raids and skirmishes along the rivers, from Dol Amroth to Cair Andros, were already causing great anxiety for Lothíriel and Nessiel, left mainly on their own in the city. It seemed that all their time was spent waiting; waiting for tidings from Imrahil's household guards, who received more news than they themselves, and waiting for letters from Dol Amroth (and in Lothíriel's case, Rohan), to know that all was well with their menfolk. Rides outside the city were absolutely forbidden by the Steward, even when Faramir was in the city and could make himself available. Boromir was sent north on an unknown errand, and Lothíriel missed his admittedly rare company as well.

To occupy themselves, they spent most of their days in harmless pursuits. Alphros was a joy, of course, learning to walk on his chubby legs, and when he was sleeping Lothíriel and Nessiel busied their hands (though not their minds) with embroidery or weaving, sometimes browsing the city markets or even (one particularly desperate and rainy day) rearranging all the furniture in the household.

After the sun went down every evening, Lothíriel lit a candle in her chamber and wrote to Éomer, despite that he may not receive it, or the increasing unlikelihood of a timely answer. Most days, she wrote only a few lines of what activities she and Nessiel had done that day. Occasionally she wrote of the scant tidings they received from Dol Amroth, or even less often, of the dull, aching fear for her father and brothers which never seemed to fade.

Once, daringly, Lothíriel confided on these parchments of her anxiety for Éomer.

 _You have told me not to worry for you, but your request is in vain. I think of you nearly every day; we do not know how Rohan fares, but I think it is not good. I do not doubt you, but I do sometimes dread some unlucky day where you might be injured or worse. You are one of my dear friends, Éomer, if not the dearest of all, and I would not have you suffer. Dying certainly falls under suffering, in my opinion, so be wary._

After Éomer's assurances in September that he was well, Lothíriel happily bound up her collection of notes and sent them on their way to Rohan—they might reach him, but they might not. She had little power to influence the conditions one way or the other. But at least it cleared her desk.

* * *

A freak blizzard in early October granted a brief reprieve, the first since the spring, and Éomer returned to Aldburg to organize constant patrols from a central location. Those patrols would be terrible, he was sure, but he no longer trusted the Dunlendings and Wild Men to stay in their caves during with snow on the ground, not with sorcery abetting them. The most recent raids of their enemy had involved orcs as well, and Éomer's mouth was bitter whenever he recalled those snarling faces, devoid of humanity and gleefully cruel as they watched a village burn to the ground before his éored could destroy them with spear and sword.

The weariness of constant movement, of frequent skirmishes, of the desolation he had seen all too often, made for a heavy heart and a fatigued mind. Éomer slept in his chambers for two days after his return to Aldburg before realizing there was a pile of correspondence on the desk.

It was just after dawn, and after dressing absently he rifled through the letters. One or two from Éowyn, very short and not very informative (not that he expected many secrets when they both knew that their messages to each other were read by spying eyes), a few from captains or marshals across Rohan, which revealed even less (most messages were passed by mouth between them; which was why he had no letters from Théodred), and lastly, a single though very thick letter that he smiled to see, for it bore his name in Lothíriel's familiar handwriting.

Forgetting that he was due elsewhere in less than an hour, Éomer immediately sat upon his bed, opening her letter eagerly, desperate to know her thoughts and to forget his tenacious position for just a while.

He was surprised that this letter was different than he was accustomed to; rather than a long, flowing response it was a series of entries, almost like a record of her days. He did not mind this one whit—Lothíriel rarely ever wrote of her daily life. Éomer suspected that mostly her seclusion pained her, but he was both happy to learn she had company in the form of her sister by marriage, and that they were not fading away into boredom.

One of the last entries gave him pause, and he reread it several times to try to process it: _You are one of my dear friends, Éomer, if not the dearest of all, and I would not have you suffer._ Éomer blinked, squinted, and read it again. Then he laughed.

 _If not the dearest of all_ —well! He would wager that sentence had more meaning that she plainly stated. The hope he had long cherished of Lothíriel caring for him, even loving him and returning _his_ affection, had been suppressed during the last, difficult months. It returned now in full force, warming him, comforting him, and bringing to remembrance that lovely day so long ago that they had ridden in the mountains outside Minas Tirith…

It was several more days until he had time to sit down and pen a response. He did so with no a small amount of nervousness, hoping that he knew Lothíriel as well as he thought. _This_ letter could not go astray, and if it did Éomer would be greatly grieved and perhaps a mite embarrassed. He folded it tightly, slightly heavier than normal with the gift he included, and sealed it.

And he pushed himself into all the trials that were coming with that spark of hope and love to sustain him.

* * *

 _1 January 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Lothíriel was not expecting another letter from Éomer; not with the winter conditions in the mountains (though rumors of no snow in the passes were trickling into the city, and frightening not a few), and certainly not with the tidings of increasing unrest in Rohan. Such was her astonishment to be delivered of a thick package one grey morning by her maid _—_ Lothíriel's heart skipped a beat, she nearly squawked aloud, and her fingers were shaking too much to finish buttoning the front of her frock.

The five minutes she had to wait until she was alone was nearly too much. But eventually the maid left and the door was shut, and Lothíriel tore the seal, eagerly reading Éomer's words with such a smile that her cheeks began to ache. It began with the usual responses to her last letter, but the end…the end _—_

 _Since you were subtle enough to remind me that your birthday falls in January some years ago, and I do not expect this letter to arrive before then, I shall oblige your sure desires and wish you many happy returns. I remember you once told me that young men and women come of age at twenty in Gondor. It seems quite late to me as in Rohan we are considered full-grown at sixteen. But I digress—'tis a special day for you, and I wish you well._

 _I am sure you have already opened and admired the gift I sent. When a young woman comes of age here, she is usually given a family heirloom to declare her ascension into adulthood, and most often it is jewelry. This ring which I have enclosed was my mother's. Before you protest, I am determined that you keep it. Éowyn does not want it, for the sight of it pains her, and it is far too small for me. I would be gratified if you would care for it, and it would give me a good deal of comfort to know it dwells upon the finger of such a wonderful woman._

 _Would it be too much of me to hope that when you see it, you might think of me?_

 _In Rohan, when one comes of age one may marry as they wish. I hope it is the same in Gondor, else I am about to make a terrible blunder. Would it also be too much of me to hope, that when you look at this ring you may think of me_ _fondly_ _? More than fondly, perhaps? Were this war not worsening, I might speak more freely, but please know, Lothíriel, that I think only of you._

 _Yours (and I do not mean that as an empty pleasantry, for I assure you I am devotedly and completely yours),_

 _Éomer_

Her breath was short. Her knees quaked. Her stomach was fluttering. With numb fingers Lothíriel turned open the second parchment, and into her hand fell a ring _—_ a thin, gold band and a polished, blood-red garnet set amongst tiny, shining rubies. It fit upon her third finger perfectly, and she bit back a smile, admiring the glint as it caught a stream of sunshine from the window.

Éomer loved her!

At least, she was fairly certain he did—she read the letter again, and thrice more before determining that that it was true. He loved her! All the anxieties of the last months disappeared in a moment, and Lothíriel laughed aloud.

She threw open the windows to the unseasonable warmth outside, stuffy with the ripe smells of the city—but she did not care—she spun 'round the chamber, hugging herself tightly, sure that she had never been so happy in her life—

 _Éomer loved her!_

Eventually the happy tears overwhelmed her, and Lothíriel collapsed upon her bed, gasping for breath as she hid her face in her hands, sobs wracking her body. Éomer loved her, and she loved him—he rode to war, and she was in exile.

But those were concerns for another time. Her happiness still bubbled, and she composed herself with several, steadying hiccups. War could not possibly last forever; she needn't despair of their future yet—

Lothíriel rushed to her desk, nearly tearing a piece of parchment in her haste to respond to Éomer's letter. It must be sent as soon as possible, before the unrest prevented the messengers from travelling between Rohan and Gondor. She hoped with all her heart the messenger carrying this missive would not be slain on the Great West Road like his predecessor, for she felt, in all the urgency of her heart, that there must be _no_ delay in Éomer receiving her response. Did he fret? Lothíriel could not be sure—but she did not wish him too.

 _Dearest Éomer, Beloved Éomer, most Darling Éomer_ —

 _I cannot pretend subtleties such as yours when my heart overflows. Éomer, I love you! If I have mistaken your suggestions then I am likely the greatest fool in the world, but I cannot care! It is a relief to pen it at last, for my heart has been yours for many years. I could not name the day I first loved you, even if I cared to try_ — _only know that I am completely, utterly yours; every part of me._

 _Would that this war would end! It is such a contradiction in my heart to fear death and destruction and yet to yearn so fiercely for you! I feel as though I ought to be_ _more_ _worried and frightened, but somehow I think I shall be smiling myself silly for the next days and weeks._

 _I will wear your ring always, and with honor._

 _Love, love, and more love always (until you grow quite sick of me, I should think),_

 _Lothíriel_

She sealed the letter clumsily, and it was on its way.


	8. You're My Backbone And My Cornerstone

_7 March 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Lothíriel was shivering in the night air; she tugged her shawl more tightly 'round her shoulders, but it was barely enough covering over her nightdress. She leaned out the window of her father's study, for it afforded the best view of Mount Mindolluin above, where she could barely see the flickering orange light of fire against the blackness of the sky.

She could not say she was entirely surprised that the beacons had been lit; everyone in the city knew that war was coming, sooner than expected, and that it would be terrible. Many were packing their belongings to obey the Steward's orders of evacuation, but her bags lay untouched, and she intended to leave them empty.

Lothíriel and Nessiel had agreed together, some days back, that they would stay in Minas Tirith despite Denethor's orders. Dol Amroth certainly was no safer, and neither wished to flee into the unfriendly mountains. Lothíriel, for her part, was tired of avoiding danger altogether—it had hovered above her head since the day she had been sent away from her home. She would rather face it straight on, in defense of Minas Tirith rather than as a coward hiding in the hills.

Nessiel's reasons differed slightly—her worry for Elphir was increasing daily, and the hope of his coming to Minas Tirith with the Swan Knights to fight in its defense kept her within its walls. Even if he were to fall defending the city, she wished to see him before that dreadful day.

Midnight was creeping on fast, and Lothíriel reached out to close the glass-paned windows with a click, shutting out the cold breeze. She swept 'round and returned to her chamber, picking up her skirt to keep it from trailing on the ground.

There was another reason she wished to stay, though she had not voiced it.

Rumors of Rohan, of their allies of the north coming to fight for them, to save their city, were abounding. The sensations she felt conflicted themselves within her at this—her heart racing for Éomer, her stomach twisting with nerves for the upcoming bloodshed.

Lothíriel lay in bed, pulling the covers close, twisting his ring around her finger as she stared at the hangings of the bed. Whatever the gossip was, regarding whether Rohan would come to bolster their defenses, Lothíriel could not quite decide her own opinion upon the matter. She had received no word from Éomer in several weeks, and for the rumors of Rohan's own tenacious position, she wondered if such help was even possible to give. But if it _could_ be given, for what it was worth, she did not doubt Éomer one whit.

And if he _did_ come, and soon…she could see him again, to speak to him, to touch him and see his smiles and hear him laugh. If there was laughter to be had in such dark times, they would find it, she was sure…

But for all the hope that night gave her, during the following days there were little more.

Not two days letter there came shouts from lower in the city: _The Prince! The Prince of Dol Amroth has come!_ This news was immediately taken to Imrahil's house, and the two women, upon hearing this, immediately rushed to the wall of the Sixth Circle, peering down below—

Indeed, an army of silver-armored knights were making their way into the city, led by a large blue banner with the prince's crest. Nessiel was clutching Lothíriel's arm; they could not see if their brothers were included, though the prominent figure was so obviously Imrahil. They did not know how Dol Amroth fared; they did not know if it could be left defenseless for the sake of Minas Tirith.

"Come!" Lothíriel said, frustrating at the slow progress of the Knights, and determined to busy herself, and to distract Nessiel as well. "Let us have the chambers prepared, and supper, too! They will be hungry."

As most of the servants had left the city, they were obliged to air out the chambers themselves, building fires in the hearths, and informing the surly cook, an old man left behind, that they were expecting more for supper, though they did not know how many.

Some hours later, more than they expected, the commotion of horses and soldiers reached the house at last. They rushed to the courtyard—at least, Lothíriel rushed and Nessiel tried to hurry Alphros along—just in time to see all three of the prince's sons dismount, looking weary.

There was a tick in Elphir's cheek as he drank in the sight of his wife and son, and he was heard to say as she cried out his name, "Nessiel! Why have you not left?", before he caught them both in a tight embrace.

Lothíriel discreetly looked away, giving her attention instead to Erchirion and Amrothos. "We were hoping you would come," she told them breathlessly. "What of Dol Amroth?"

"Minas Tirith is of greater concern now," Erchirion said after an awkward moment, wherein he and his younger brother exchanged an unhappy glance. "We rode in all haste—the journey took only nine days."

Nine days! Fourteen days of travel in _nine_! Lothíriel blinked, wondering why they were not _more_ tired, and then ushered them into the kitchens for repast, which was gratefully accepted.

"But now you must tell us, Lothíriel," Amrothos said, taking one of her arms. "Why are you still in the city? Did Denethor not give orders to evacuate?"

"Of course he did," she said stoutly. "We ignored them."

"But—"

"And if we had not, you would not have a hot meal," she pointed out to him. "So hush!"

Amrothos laughed at this, but Erchirion remained silent.

"When will Father come?" Lothíriel asked next.

"Soon, I am sure," was the terse answer, and it was all she had.

 _Soon_ was nightfall, and at last Imrahil entered his own house, mirroring his son's exhaustion, though he smiled to see his daughter when Lothíriel brought him a meal to his rooms. It was growing late, and whatever her father's business, she was sure he needed rest and repast.

"Come sit with me," Imrahil said, and she did, drawing up a chair next to him at a small table. He poured himself a glass of wine, and asked in a mild voice, "I suppose there is a reason you are here when you ought to be safe in Lossonarch."

"Because I am of use here, and I wish to support my family as they defend our country," Lothíriel said. "I am tired of hiding, Father."

He hummed in agreement. "I cannot disagree, but you must understand that the odds are in favor of the enemy."

"It matters not."

Imrahil cast her a glance, and then his eyes narrowed as they lingered on her face. She flushed to be so scrutinized. "You are not the girl I remember, daughter."

Lothíriel gave a laugh. "I am the same as always, Father, I assure you. Though I am less likely to scribble upon your decrees now."

"Hmm. There is a new light in your eyes."

There was? She blinked at her father, and a smile grew on his face as he returned to his meager supper. "That is a fine ring you wear," he said mildly.

Oh! Consciously she fingered the garnet, unsure of what to reveal. She swallowed, and said, "Thank you, Father. It is very dear to me."

"I have not seen such a style in Dol Amroth. Perhaps it is a new one. Where did you procure it?"

"Ah—a friend."

"A very good friend you have."

Lothíriel forced a weak smile.

"Anyway—I thank you and Nessiel for welcoming us so well," Imrahil said, waving his fork at his plate. "Truly I was anticipating dried meat and hard tack for the next while. I wish I could assure you that your brothers and I will return regularly, but I cannot anticipate Denethor's strategies. We will send word when we can."

"That is all we can hope for, Father," Lothíriel told him, and impulsively reached for his empty hand, holding it tightly in hers. "I am happy to see you."

He smiled. "And I you. Now run along to bed—who knows how much sleep we may have in the coming days. We will all need our rest while we can have it."

She bounded away obediently, and though she could see distant fires to the east, her heart was cushioned by the presence of her father.

And Éomer would come. Lothíriel was sure of it.

* * *

 _9 March 3019 T.A., Dunharrow_

Éomer could scarce wait until his uncle dismissed him; his fingers tapped restlessly against his knee, half-listening to the discussion. At last, they were discharged, and the company left the King's tent, all going their own ways. Éomer was the last to depart, and hurried to catch up to Hirgon in the dark, calling the messenger's name in a hiss so as not to draw attention.

"My lord," Hirgon said, his voice betraying nothing.

"I must ask," Éomer said in a rush. "What of the citizens of Minas Tirith? You did not tell my uncle how—how they fare, or what is to be done with them. Must they remain in a city under siege?"

"Nay, lord—the Steward gave orders to have the city evacuated several days ago. I departed myself before it was carried out."

"Evacuated? And everyone is to be included in those orders?"

"Yea; all but those who can fight. The women, children, and old men have been sent to the mountains where they may be safe."

Relief caused Éomer to sigh aloud, confusing the messenger even more, but he managed a smile for the man all the same. "I am glad for it."

"As are we all, lord." Hirgon's eyes were shrewd, and Éomer decided it was prudent to cease his questioning there. It was likely the messenger knew of Lothíriel, as she was daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth, but that line of interrogation would be indelicate. He did not wish word to get 'round of his vested and rather personal interest in the safety of the people of Minas Tirith…

Éomer let out a breath, and dismissed the messenger politely, turning on his heel to seek his own tent, and what little rest he might find.

He had worried, perhaps more than he ought, of his princess in her faraway land. _His_ princess he called her, for she had assured him that she was…still Éomer could not think of that wonderful, wonderful letter he had received from her. If they survived this threat, he had every intention of wedding her, and he suspected she would not object. He smiled at the draping ceiling of his tent. No, he was certain she would be his wife…his _wife_. He could not even consider her as such without the warm of love and protectiveness and desire burning within his chest. It was all too easy to imagine her by his side in Aldburg, with her sweetness, her laughter, her affection—

If Minas Tirith was freed, if the people could return…he would find her. He would ride to Lossonarch himself, _walk_ if he must, to find her. At least she would safe in the coming days, if further away from him. This was not how he expected to return to Gondor, but all the same—at least he could return at all.

A shiver took his body as Éomer recalled the last weeks, and he turned on his side on his bedroll, determined to forget it all, at least at present, for he had a harder road to travel in the morn.

* * *

 _14-16 March 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

"Oh, do stop pacing, you are making _me_ nervous!"

Nessiel's impassioned plea stopped Lothíriel's steps, and she glanced apologetically towards Nessiel with a wan smile. "I am sorry," she said. "I simply cannot bear being cooped up—"

"I know." Nessiel gave her gentle reply, and returned to her embroidery.

"—and all I _truly_ wish is for someone to bring us tidings! Or that Denethor had not given that wretched order to keep us from Faramir!" Lothíriel sat in an indignant huff upon the window seat, which only looked out upon Imrahil's gardens. There were no blooms; only scraggly branches and damp stone, and the faint scent of smoke.

Alphros was sitting upon a thick rug on the ground, and he banged two wooden blocks together with a gleeful laugh. Lothíriel glanced over at him, allowing herself a smile, and she moved to sit down beside him. They stacked up several blocks, and then with an enormous _roar_ Alphros swung his little arm into the tower, and it fell with a clatter. Lothíriel laughed, and began to build another one for him.

This distraction kept her until the supper hour, when the surly cook brought them another sparse meal. Lothíriel attempted to ask him if there were any news from her father, but he only shook his head without a word, closing the door loudly behind him.

The tension was thick, and the waiting was worse. Nessiel lost patience with her sewing, throwing it into a basket with an uncharacteristic sigh of frustration, some hours after supper. Alphros took this opportunity to crawl into his mother's lap, and she held him close as he yawned. Lothíriel was pacing again, but she tried to do so unsuspiciously.

Her bed that night was cold and unwelcoming, and brought no comfort nor sleep. She tossed and turned, her ears straining for any signs of battle—but they must have been too high up in the city. Eventually she dozed near dawn, but fitfully, and woke feeling more tired than she had the night before.

That day passed similarly—the sky was still ominously grey, no tidings came, and the house was eerily silent. Lothíriel played with Alphros, tried to read a novel, and gave up mending a torn hem. Sometime in the afternoon, lying in the window seat as she stared out unseeing, there came an alarming sound—no, several! Clangs and shouts and screams, and she jolted upwards, drawn from her trance.

Nessiel had gone pale, and Alphros, asleep in her lap, stirred restlessly.

"Should we go?" Nessiel asked in a hush.

"Where?" Lothíriel countered. "The city is blocked. There is no leaving; not to the mountains, not anywhere."

"Surely your uncle—the Citadel—"

"I am sure Denethor is _quite_ busy," she snapped, unknowing and uncaring where her temper came from. "And anyway, I am sure he feels little compassion towards the plight of those who deliberately disobeyed his orders to flee the city!"

Nessiel gave her a reproachful look, and Lothíriel turned away. Despite the waiting for _anything_ to give an indication of what was happening outside the city, the sounds of the battle brought no further comfort.

All night long it raged. The fire in the small chamber they were in smoldered, and neither of them dared to leave each other's company. Nessiel curled on the floor in a pile of blankets with Alphros slumbering in her arms, and Lothíriel did not leave her vigil at the window seat. There were not even stars to comfort her. Leaning her head against the cold stone of the wall, she let her eyes drift shut, thinking of Éomer. He would come, she thought stubbornly. She did not doubt him; she could not—

Her dozing was no more restful that night, and she dreamed dark nightmares, clawing at her skin and bones until she was nothing but dust, and everything around her was dust, and—

"What was that noise?"

Nessiel was sitting upright, Alphros upon her lap. Lothíriel blinked away her sleep, disoriented to see the lightening of the sky—was it dawn already? She meant to ask Nessiel what in Arda she was talking about, but at that moment it came again: horns.

But not horns of Gondor; not of Dol Amroth nor Osgiliath. She had heard these horns only once before, preceding one Marshal's departure from Minas Tirith four years earlier.

The horns of Rohan.


	9. I Fell Heavy Into Your Arms

_14 March 3019 T.A., Merethrond_

The halls of the Citadel of Minas Tirith were eerily silent. Éomer's bootsteps made more noise than they ought, echoing in the empty corridors and massive Merethrond. Not even distant servants or nobles could be heard—all had been evacuated. The pale light of the setting sun made shafts around him.

Weary, he sat upon an uncomfortably cold, marble bench and allowed the stillness to swallow him. Imrahil would come soon, he had said, and arrangements would be made. But what arrangements, Éomer wondered dully. For his uncle's body, resting now in the empty feasting hall? For his sister? For the bodies of his men? Or to ride to Cair Andros for more battle?

These thoughts were unhappy. Distantly he wished for Lothíriel—but she was in Lossonarch. It would be days until she returned, and likely by then he would be gone… Something caught his eye, and he lifted his head to stare to his left, where another corridor intersected before going deeper into the citadel. There were shadows on the walls. He was not alone, and he stared as the shadows lengthened and turned into real flesh and bone figures, his mind slow. Éomer blinked.

A sweep of blue skirts, the smile which was seared upon his memory—and her eyes. Béma, her eyes! How could she express so much in a mere glance? He stood abruptly from the bench, walking in a daze to the corner which she had turned—

"Go on, Nessiel! I shall only be a moment!"

He saw down the corridor two women, one he recognized and one he did not. The taller of the two was urging the other on, and as he watched, the shorter continued her course, leaving the taller behind. Éomer swallowed thickly; his heart was in his throat; he had dreamed of meeting her again, though under better circumstances—he had hardly expected her to be in the city while it was under siege.

She turned to face him.

"Lothíriel," he said hoarsely.

Her smile wavered as emotion crossed her face, and a heart-shattering moment later she was rushing towards him, her cheeks flushed. He caught her in an embrace, breathing in her scent—she was _real_ , his sleep-deprived mind was not playing cruel tricks on him after all—

"Éomer!" She half-sobbed into the front of his tunic, clinging to him with desperation. "I heard the horns, I knew you were coming—"

"Hush!" Éomer pulled away slightly, holding her face in his hands as he gazed down at her. Lothíriel, _his_ Lothíriel, was smiling with the brightness of a thousand suns as she drank in the sight of him. She was no longer the young girl who had snuck into the stables to pet his horse; _this_ was a full-grown woman, elegant and beautiful and fully bloomed, and his heart raced. Her fingers were curled around his forearms, as if unwilling to let him go. And he saw, upon her third finger, his mother's ring. He could not help smiling, taking her hand in his and bringing it carefully to his lips, murmuring over her knuckles,

"I can tell you plainly now, princess, that I love you with all my heart."

"Oh, Éomer, I—"

He dropped her hand, taking her 'round the waist and pulling her close. She only had time to emit a small, gasping, _"Oh!"_ before he did what he had been wanting to for many years, and kissed her. Heat flooded his veins—he could feel the trembling in Lothíriel's slight frame as she leaned into him. _Béma,_ it had been so long since he had seen her—four years, in fact. And two of those years he had loved her…

She was gasping for air when he released her in fear of her swooning. Éomer took in the sight of her glittering eyes, full of the love and passion he too felt as she blinked owlishly up at him.

"Oh, oh dear. I am not certain that letters will suffice any longer!"

He laughed, the sound echoing eerily in the empty corridor. "You may need to think twice, my girl! For you have yet to notice that I still wear the stink and blood of battle, and yet you still threw yourself into my arms. Once you realize this mistake, I am sure you will wish to retreat to parchment."

Lothíriel shook her head fiercely. "No, never! I love you no matter your smell, Éomer. _Oh_ , I am _sure_ that I have never been so happy in my life..."

One of his brows quirked upwards, but her smile was infectious. "An odd day to choose to be at your happiest," he teased, nuzzling his nose against hers.

"Oh—I mean to say, the battle was _terrible_ ; we could hear it even here...but my father is alive, my brothers are unhurt, and _you..._ Éomer, you are well and you are _here_! I have dreamt of meeting you again for so long! How can I not be overflowing with joy?"

Éomer's grin did not fade, but the sinking of emotion within his chest must have been visible to her, to this wonderful woman who knew him better than anyone, for her brows creased as she studied his face.

"I am sorry," Lothíriel said softly. "I did not think—this is an awful day for _you_. I know—your uncle—your sister—" Her fingers pressed into his chest, and her care and compassion sunk into him with a warm glow. "I am sorry," she repeated in a whisper.

He kissed the tip of her nose, willing his well of grief not to overcome him. His voice unsteady, he said, "Lothíriel, my sweet...what a generous heart you have! I would not that you take part in my mourning."

"I must." Her eyes shone with determination. "I _will_."

Éomer sighed. "Simply having you here is enough for me. It has been too long…"

"Four years."

"Four _long_ years. I wish never to relive them." He spoke bitterly, his eyes burning with pain as he recalled sights he wished to forget; Éowyn, pale as death, his uncle, broken and bleeding—

Her gentle hand was on his face, her eyes drawing him in, willing him to drown with her. "You will not have to. Éomer, I am here." His arms tightened 'round his waist, and she rested her head on his chest as he buried his face in her hair. _Here_. Here, there was nothing but Lothíriel and him and the relief from the ache of loving her and not having her… His grief dimmed, and slumbered.

The clearing of a throat nearby caused them to jump apart. Imrahil was standing some feet away, looking a tad exasperated and a good deal weary. He still wore his armor, though his face was clean of blood.

"Father!" Lothíriel said after an awkward moment. "I—"

But the prince held up a hand, forestalling any excuse that was likely forthcoming. Éomer clenched her hand tightly behind her back, though he was sure that Imrahil's keen eyes took note.

"I was intending to offer Éomer lodgings in our house, as beds are hard to come by in the city," Imrahil said dryly. "But I have changed my mind. I will ask around; I am sure there is something."

Both Éomer and Lothíriel protested this at once, for different reasons, and the prince shook his head.

"I am not hosting this sort of nonsense under my roof, Lothíriel," he said sternly. "And I _do_ feel an obligation to see that the King of Rohan is not sleeping in the stables with his horse when I might extend my influence and procure more appropriate lodgings."

A blank silence met these words. Lothíriel stiffened beside him, perhaps at the words _the King of Rohan_ , but Éomer remained too detached to think anything of it. Imrahil gazed between them with acute interest, and a sly smile grew on his face. Éomer had the grace to feel a sense of embarrassment for the position they had been caught in, and feared a reprimand—but none came.

"I will send a message with directions when I am able," Imrahil said unexpectedly. "Until then, I have business. Good night!" And he turned and strode away down the corridor, his footsteps fading until he took a corner and was gone. Lothíriel let out a deep breath, leaning into Éomer, and he tucked her into another embrace, kissing the top of her head.

"I am sorry," she said, her voice muffled by his tunic. "And I ought to go—I am supposed to be meeting with the noblewomen who stayed behind to organize efforts for relief in the city—"

"Go!" Éomer said gently, lifting her face to plant a quick kiss on her forehead. "I do not mean to detain you."

Dimples formed in her cheeks as she smiled up at him. "I do not mind one bit!" Lothíriel declared with a laugh.

"That is well. I should like to detain you again soon…" He could not help claiming her lips once more, and when he pulled away she gave an adorable little sigh, regretfully unwinding her arms from around him.

"I will discover from my father where you are staying," she promised. "Good—goodbye, Éomer."

"It is hardly goodbye," he protested, catching her hand as she made to leave, pressing a final kiss to the palm of her hand. Éomer watched the swish of her skirt and the gentle flow of her dark hair as she left, and she cast a final, shy smile over her shoulder before turning a corner, and she was gone.

* * *

Lothíriel's nerves were all aflutter when she at last took a place in the sitting room, surrounded by noblewomen. She was the last to arrive, though so happily delayed—and breaking the silence upon her entrance, Nessiel said curiously to her,

"Lothíriel, there is blood upon your frock. Are you well?"

"Oh—" And indeed there was a smear of black blood across the front of her bodice. Pulling a handkerchief from her reticule, Lothíriel tried to dab it off, but to no avail. She flushed; Éomer had not been wrong when he had said he was covered in blood, though she had seen none of it. Oh, dear. She hoped none would discover _how_ she had come to wear the blood of the battle…

There were about eight ladies present. All, like herself and Nessiel, had refused Denethor's orders to leave the city. Minas Tirith was beloved to them, as were their fighting husbands, sons, and brothers. There was no hesitation to turn the conversation to relief efforts. The experience of the years combined between them made for simple plans to provide for those in need.

Volunteers would be taken, from among themselves and the hale citizens of the city, to assist in the Healing Houses, which one lady declared as to be overflowing with bodies. To no one's real surprise, food was beginning to run scarce, especially with the sudden surge of Riders from Rohan. They would each search their stores to donate goods which their households could do without, to be given to the barracks. Clothing would need to be found and given to those that had none besides that which they were, which were likely to be torn, stained, and unsalvageable. Additionally, the ladies would send their servants to assist in other necessary tasks—laundry would be a terrible ordeal in the coming days, as would handling extra horses and finding food and board for the beasts as well.

"The Warden of the Healing Houses has been trying to take names of those wounded and those dead, from their comrades," the lady who had visited those Houses told them. "So—so that their families might know—" She broke off, unable to continue as her voice wavered and her face turned pale. Lothíriel immediately reached over to take the lady's hand; she knew that most of them still awaited tidings of their menfolk, which tidings were unlikely to come at all, except from the Warden's lists.

"I do not know how long the soldiers will be in the city," another lady said after an awkward moment. "Nessiel, will you try to discover such information from Prince Imrahil?"

"Yes, I certainly will."

"I will go to Merethrond," Lothíriel said. "The servants there may need organizing or direction; donations can be found from the steward's store as well—"

"Is it true, then, that Denethor is dead?" one lady asked. A silence followed this during which Lothíriel's stomach twisted with forgotten confusion and grief. She had thought little of her uncle since Imrahil had told her of the steward's fate some hours earlier. She cleared her throat at last.

"My father has confirmed it to be so. We must do our parts all the better, for the leadership of Minas Tirith is in shambles."

These plans made, they all departed in haste to accomplish these essential tasks. Nessiel and Lothíriel were the last to leave, and slowly returned to her father's house with unfortunately no glimpse of Éomer, though that did not surprise her.

Supper that night was late and thin; all their family was exhausted as they sat together in the kitchens at an old table as they ate. It was quiet, at first, and Lothíriel finished her meal quickly, gazing around instead with pride and relief to see her family whole. Elphir was sitting awfully close to Nessiel, and Alphros slept upon his mother's lap. Erchirion was nodding over his soup, and Amrothos appeared to have no teasing or jokes in him that night. Imrahil was the first to speak.

"Elphir, have you considered my proposal?"

All stirred; after a moment Elphir replied, "Yes, Father. I agree." And he turned to his wife and said, "Now that Dol Amroth is safe, we would have you return home at last."

"Home?" Nessiel blinked in astonishment, as if such a notion had not occurred to her.

"Yes; yourself and Alphros, and Lothíriel will go with you."

Lothíriel was immediately incensed. Despite her yearning for her sea-home for many years while she lay in wait in this gloomy city, the injustice of being sent back just as her family was whole, that Éomer was whole, and that she might assist in the war! She gritted her teeth, and said,

"I will _not_."

Several pairs of surprised eyes turned to her. Erchirion was aroused from his stupor, and Imrahil replied in his usual mild tone, "Whyever not?"

"Because—because—" She struggled to articulate herself, her veins aflame with emotion. "Because I can be of use in the city! I can help! I am _going_ to help!"

Her father's gaze was level, but after a moment he nodded. "If your feelings are so strong, then I will not gainsay you. Nessiel, you may stay as well, if you like."

Nessiel's face was set, however, and she stroked her son's hair with single, slender hand. "I would return to Dol Amroth, sire," she said. "For I can be of use there. I might assist in putting the palace back to order, while Lothíriel labors here."

Imrahil smiled at this, and his gaze flitted from Nessiel to Lothíriel. "How fortunate I am to have two such wise daughters! Erchirion and Amrothos, you have quite the standards to fill with your own wives."

Amrothos was hiding a grin, and he replied, "Well, Father, if you ask _my_ opinion, I think Lothíriel wishes to stay in Minas Tirith because _Éomer_ is here."

"I wonder how blind you think me, son." Imrahil said blandly. "Lothíriel may have many reasons for staying, but I trust her fully. If she says she is going to help, I do not doubt her."

"Thank you, Father!" she said in relief before sending a vicious glare at her brother. "But how much longer will the soldiers be in the city? Are there not other roads to clear of the enemy?" Imrahil was silent after this question, and when he spoke again his voice was heavy.

"I cannot answer you yet," he said. "But I will, when I can."

But when Lothíriel found her bed soon after, her thoughts were not full of duties and tasks and worries, but of Éomer, and she remembered how he had kissed her…and sleep was delicious, that night.


	10. I'll Share in Your Suffering

_Happy Birthday to Me. Let's do things Hobbit-style: I'll give you a gift. How about an Extra Update ;)_

* * *

 _16 March 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Two days later Lothíriel departed from her from her father's house, walking with haste up the golden streets in the late afternoon sun, and to the familiar stables of the steward. But Faramir was ill in the Houses of Healing, and so the stables and guesthouse had been given to the men of Rohan important enough not to be sleeping in tents in cleared portions of the Pelennor below.

That entire day she had seen nearly no one; her father had left to meet with several councils, and her brothers either to councils or to oversee various duties. Lothíriel knew, by extension, that Éomer would be involved in the same meetings, and so she had refrained from seeking him out until her father at last returned. Knowing Éomer as she did, she hoped her presumption was not in vain—and indeed, it was not.

"I hoped I would find you here."

Immediately he looked up from where he had been methodically and absently brushing the awful tangles from his stallion's mane. Lothíriel could not help flushing in renewed awareness of Éomer's handsomeness, and she offered a smile. Surprise at her appearance delayed his answering grin by only a moment.

"Lothíriel," he said, and his smile faded ever so slightly. She perceived at once the weariness in the set of his shoulders, and the shadow of his eyes. So she stepped forward into the stables as he hung up the comb, and he took her into his arms.

"Éomer," she murmured. "Tell me what is troubling you."

A pause. "You mustn't worry for me, sweet one. My burdens are not yours."

Lothíriel drew away, frowning as she spoke fiercely, "They certainly are, sir! I will not have you bear them alone." Éomer pushed the hair escaped from her braid away from her face, his fingers gentle and a fond smile growing on his lips as he gazed down at her. But he said nothing.

"Let us go," she said. "If you will not confide in me here with the listening ears of beasts, I know of another place—"

With exaggerated obedience, Éomer laughed quietly, but still allowed himself to be tugged by the hand, out of the stables and through the winding, private paths of Merethrond. Lothíriel was intent on their destination, and meeting no one on their trek soon they arrived at the outer walls of the library. Through the arched window, the dark rows of books could be seen, but they did not come to read. She led him to the far side of the library, and a flashing smile over her shoulder, she pushed aside an enormous hanging of ivy to reveal a sturdy trellis.

Éomer burst into startled laughter.

"Come on, then," she told him, and delicately lifting her skirts, she mounted the trellis. It was a quick climb; she had been taking it for many years, and once they were planted firmly on the roof of the library, Éomer spoke.

"I have misjudged your mischief," he said, shifting nearer to her and placing his hand over hers. "Before this moment, I have only thought of you as _more_ mischievous than usual. Now I can only declare you as the worst imp I have met!"

Lothíriel flushed, though she gave her own laugh. "It is a lovely view," she said. "And private."

The view was not particularly lovely that day. Still the Pelennor fields, far below, smoked; dark mounds were raised and half-burned banners flew. It was all brown and black in the light of the early evening, and at Éomer's silence she nearly regretted bringing him to this place.

"I remember how beautiful Pelennor was, that day that we met," he said quietly. "It will be beautiful again, I hope."

She smiled up at him, and their eyes met. There was a fluttering in her breast—she would never tire of looking at him, she was sure. And evidently he felt the same, for his smile turned genuine, the shadow in his eyes lightening.

"You are wonderful, Lothíriel," Éomer said. "And I do love you." His arm reached 'round her shoulders and drew her close. Resting her head against his warm, sturdy chest, she sighed happily before replying.

"I do hope you will speak plainly to me, for I wish to be of help to you, anyway I might."

His fingers were tracing lazily circles on her arm, and she struggled to keep from being utterly distracted by the tingles forming on her skin. Éomer's bearded cheek rested against her head, and she felt the rumble in his chest when he next spoke.

"Have you heard, my sweet? Have your brothers told you that we march for Mordor in two days' time?"

They had not. Her heart sank at his words, and instinctively she burrowed deeper into his embrace. Not trusting herself to speak straightaway, Lothíriel waited until the burning in her eyes ceased. "I did not know," she whispered, her voice wavering.

"I am sorry to tell you. I wish that it were not true—but we must. We must face the enemy once more."

Her hand found his empty one, and she squeezed it tightly. "That—that must be why Elphir is sending his family away," Lothíriel thought aloud. "Nessiel is to go back to Dol Amroth with her son. Perhaps it is safer; I could not say. Nor could my father."

"Will you go, also?" There was yearning in Éomer's voice, if she were not mistaken—and she did not think she was. She lifted her head, beaming up at him.

"Nay, I will not. Father wished me to, but I—" Here she flushed. "I refused. Much as I dislike Minas Tirith, I want to be here as long as you are. I cannot be separated from you so soon."

There was a hard, blazing look in his green eyes, and before Lothíriel could react he had tilted her chin upwards, kissing her fiercely. Heat shot through her veins like lightning, and she savored the taste of his lips and the feel of his beard; the hot skin of his palm as he traced across her cheek, her jaw, down her neck—she could scarce _breathe_ ; her heart was in her throat—

She was shivering when he pulled away, but not from cold. Éomer cleared his throat, drawing her into his embrace once more. His ears were red.

"I am sorry," he grunted.

"N—no," Lothíriel said breathlessly, laughing nervously. "Do not be."

"I have missed you too much. My control is…tenuous." The tremor of something she could not _quite_ understand but somehow knew completely was in his voice. Then he added softly, "I can scarcely think straight, Lothíriel—too much has happened these last days. I apologize if I am not myself."

"Hmm. I cannot be surprised; anyone bearing such trials as you would feel tenuous." Thoughtfully she mused on what to say, and deciding that light teasing might be of most use to Éomer at present, she decided upon, "Should I refer to you now as 'your majesty?' I would not wish to breach proper conduct."

As she hoped, he chuckled at that. "Call me whatever you like, sweet one! As you never insisted I bow to _you_ , I could hardly demand the same!"

"Well, it _was_ tempting…"

This earned her a laugh, and she smiled up at him. "I thank you for easing my worry," Éomer said, tweaking her nose. "If you can think of my sudden inheritance on such easy terms, then I can, too."

"For what it is worth—and as always, it is very little, I believe that you will be an excellent king," Lothíriel told him firmly.

He blinked as if in surprise at this, and after a moment he asked cautiously, "Do you really?"

"Of course!" And sitting up straight, she held up her fingers to count. "Firstly, you love your land—that is obviously essential. Two, you have served your people for many years, and there are likely few others that combine your heritage and experience. Thirdly, you have proven that you dedicate yourself to the wellbeing of those you oversee, even at the cost of your own enjoyment—I am thinking of those judgement days you complained of so much, of course. Fourth, I have you heard of spoken of among your men, and they speak with nothing but respect and admiration. Fifth—"

"Béma, woman!" Éomer interrupted with a laugh. "That is enough! Do you ever cease speaking? Perhaps we should resort again to written letters, for the sake of my poor ears!"

Lothíriel knew he was teasing, but she took the opportunity to huff in indignance. She lifted her nose in the air, crossing her arms irritably and glaring at his grin. "Really!" she said. "That is poor repayment for my _trying_ to be kind—I can revoke it all, if you wish!"

"Peace! I jest." And he tried to draw her close, tugging at her stiff arms until she laughed and allowed him to hold her once more. "I am sorry," Éomer kissed the top of her head, "I should appreciate your reassurances more."

"Indeed, you should."

"I suppose this shows all the more how much I need your influence." There was a wealth of meaning in his voice as he continued with a glint in his eyes, "And how much I need a queen."

Lothíriel's heart nearly halted, but picked up again frantically. Keeping her voice level, she said, "Kings generally do, I think."

"Being queen is not an easy task, I am afraid. I wonder if I could find a woman so inclined to take Rohan—and myself—in hand."

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully. "It may be a long search, but I am sure you are up to the task."

"I am grateful for your confidence!" Éomer laughed.

"She must love you very much, if you are to be worth the effort," Lothíriel said decidedly.

"That might be the most difficult quality to find." His hand was stroking up and down on her arm most distractedly, and his voice was soft. "It would be simpler to find a woman who is merely...hmm, what should a queen be? Compassion must be her foremost value, surely. And kind, but not merely for my sake—wise in matters of state and of people. Willing to learn and adapt in her new station. Born to nobility, probably." Éomer paused for a moment before adding, "And she _must_ have a sense of humor. I could not live my days with a sour-faced woman. Let me add happy to this list, as well."

"Good heavens! I am sure you shan't find this paragon of perfection _anywhere_. You are terribly particular for a man in your situation, Éomer."

"I prefer to think of it as being _hopeful_." He was grinning down at her, which she returned. "Do you not think you have these qualities?" Éomer asked her, a single, lofty brow raised.

"Perhaps one or two, as all women do," Lothíriel teased back. "I am not particularly wise; I try to be happy, but I do not always succeed, and my sense of humor does not always align with what is appropriate."

"Those could be issues." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Well—there is always opportunity to improve."

She stuck her tongue out at him in annoyance (likely betraying just how poor her sense of humor could be), and Éomer laughed loudly. "My wife must enjoy banter," he declared. "That also, I have decided."

"I wish you luck in your search."

"I hope it may be a shorter search than you seem to believe."

"For your sake—I do hope so as well."

"And what of _your_ sake, princess?"

Lothíriel hoped that she was inferring their teasing correctly. Not wishing to ruin it, she said simply. "For my sake, I only wish you to return from Mordor whole and hale. I—" Her throat burned, and she continued in a wavering voice, "I love you, Éomer. I—I do not wish to see you go."

His expression softened, his hold upon her tightening. "I am loath to be taken away from you so soon after being reunited," Éomer said quietly. "And no hope of your charming letters…"

"When I am downcast, I have only to reread what you have already written. It cheers me immensely," Lothíriel admitted.

"I did not bring your letters with me, my sweet. I have clearly erred!"

They laughed together, their attention turning in the companionable silence to the twilight spreading across the sky. Stars twinkled above, and in the dim, the distant shadow of the east was _only_ a shadow and not the manifest threat forcing them apart. For that moment, they were safe, and they were happy, and however they teased their future, it was as hopeful as it could be.


	11. I Will Wait for You

_18 March 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

The air was chill and grey that morning; it was as though the sky felt the shadow of despair upon the inhabitants of Minas Tirith and wept with them. Lothíriel gave no thought to the drizzling rain clinging to her hair and frock as she farewelled her father and brothers outside their home; she kept her tears at bay, full aware of the value of smiling to the men as they prepared to set out on a journey which hardly bore consideration. She gave each of them a spray of nettle for protection, for she could do little else.

Imrahil kissed her head before turning away, Elphir and Erchirion did the same, and Amrothos embraced her tightly, his armor cold in the dawn and leaving her shivering when he left to mount his horse. Several dozen Swan Knights were already in formation in the street, ready to depart at their lord's command.

Lothíriel retreated to the doorway in the courtyard to avoid being trampled, taking a place beside the few servants who had not fled the city. She balled her cold hands into fists in her apron pocket, sure that her nose was red. Imrahil glanced around himself a final time, then spurred his horse forward, and the air filled with the sound of hoofbeats on stone. It grated horribly on her ears. As soon as they were gone, she could leave for the Healing Houses and assist where she could—

Instead of the hoofbeats fading, it grew loud again, and another company of mounted soldiers approached, trailing the Swan Knights. Lothíriel felt her heart begin to race; she saw Éomer at the front; bold and tall and handsome, though his eyes were weary even from a distance. But then he caught sight of her, and he smiled, spurring his horse forward.

Lothíriel met him in the street, and gave to him the last bundle of flowers from her pocket. She had added lavender and rosemary on impulse, and Éomer leaned over slightly to accept her small offering.

"I thank you, princess," he said solemnly. "Dare I hope that I carry your love with me, also?"

"Of course," Lothíriel said, managing a smile though her heart was aching. "May it bring you comfort and protection!"

"I am sure it will." There was a blazing look in his eyes as he stared down at her, and then he leaned further out of the saddle to press a kiss to her lips. Lothíriel felt her cheeks grow warm, and there was a glow in her breast to smell his familiar scent. Éomer straightened then, glancing around to his approaching men behind him. "Farewell!" he said, and briskly he was off.

There was nothing else to do or see, and Lothíriel turned away, tears nearly overwhelming for the merest moment before she suppressed them. Grieving would do more harm than good before the soldiers had even left the city…and beyond that, she had work to do.

A request from her father had aligned closely to her already formed desires, and returning to his house, she gathered together several items which she thought might be of use, and set out at once for the Healing Houses.

It was not a pleasant place; there were moans all around, cots lining the rooms wall-to-wall, and even the corridors. Soldiers; dark-haired Gondorians and fair-haired men of Rohan, filled every bed. Lothíriel could not look closer, for such grief she could not bear so close to her heart—

She arrived at the last chamber, facing west and utterly silent beyond the door. Hesitating only a moment, she rapped smartly on the door, A weak, female voice bade her enter.

The chamber which had been given to the White Lady of Rohan was airy and fresh, though the sky offered no sunlight to brighten it. There was a fire in the hearth, and fresh flowers shielded the room from the smell of blood and stink which threatened to enter from the Healing Houses. The Lady herself was sitting up in the small bed, a hunched figure, dressed in a too-large shift with her golden hair hanging loose. Lothíriel offered a smile, and stepped forward, closing the door gently behind her.

"Good morning!" she said. "I am Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil. I have come to see that you are well."

The Lady blinked, interest flashing in her red-rimmed eyes. "Princess Lothíriel," Éowyn said cordially, her head tilting curiously. "I have heard of you."

Lothíriel tried not to appear embarrassed, but at Éowyn's obvious willingness to speak she drew a hard-backed chair next to the bed and sat, her bundle balancing awkwardly on her legs. "My father has been exceptionally worried about you," she said. "And—and your brother, too. I have seen him in passing," Lothíriel added quickly.

"Yes, Éomer did say as much when he bid me farewell at dawn." There was a keen light in Éowyn's eyes, and Lothíriel wondered how much the Lady knew of Éomer's and her correspondence. But no—this was no time for such selfish wonderings.

"I have brought you some things," she said, unwrapping the bundle. "The clothing which the healers give to the wounded are...rough. Serviceable, but uncomfortable—I have brought you a shift and a dressing gown which ought to fit you better."

Éowyn hesitated only a moment before accepting the fine clothing. "I thank you," she said, then looked up with a smile. "My skin _has_ been itching something terrible—I am sure this will ease it."

Lothíriel beamed back. "I do hope so! And I have also brought—since I have been ill often enough in my life to know its great boredom—several books, should you care to read. If you do not care to read, I can send for other supplies; parchment and ink, sewing necessities—"

"Books will suffice!" The Lady assured her. "And your company is worth far more. It seems that all the healers speak in whispers; I hardly know what is happening." And despite her obvious attempt at joviality, Lothíriel saw a shadow of anxiety and deep unhappiness in Éowyn's clear green eyes—the shade so like her brother's that Lothíriel blinked stupidly for a moment before shaking herself.

"There is no news," she confessed. "I am afraid we shall know little until—until the end, one way or the other." These words recalled Lothíriel's own fears; for her father, for her brothers, for Éomer… Tears stung her eyes, and she glanced down, twisting her hands together awkwardly. To her surprise, a pale hand reached out, covering her own with a chilly touch.

"That is the way of it," Éowyn said simply. "I apologize for causing you distress. What books have you brought?"

Lothíriel fumbled with the books resting on her legs, offering them to the Lady at once. "I did not know what you prefer," she said, "So I brought everything—novels, political commentaries, geography, battle strategies—and a book of maps, though now I realize that was quite a silly choice."

"Oh, Béma!" Éowyn said, giving a hollow laugh as the books fell into her lap. "Good heavens! I cannot read all of these, no matter how long I am unwell. You are certainly thorough! It is no wonder—"

But what was no wonder was to remain a mystery; with a pink flush the Lady clamped her lips together, and examined a book with suspiciously intent interest. Lothíriel suspected that Éomer's name was very nearly said aloud, and she adjusted herself uncomfortably in the chair, searching for something to say.

"I can read to you, if you like," she offered at last. "I have few other duties at present."

Éowyn looked up with a smile. "I should like that very much. My head aches too easily at present, I am afraid…" With Lothíriel's suggestions, she choose from the bounteous stack a fiction novel about a lord who was cursed as a child to only speak in rhymes. It was a favorite of Lothíriel's, and she took a good deal of pleasure in reading aloud. Soon the lurking shadows behind Éowyn's eyes were expelled in fits of laughter, and when Lothíriel's voice grew ragged and the sun grew a deep golden through the streaming windows, she was satisfied with her efforts. For a time, their worries had been forgotten.

"I will come again when I am next free," she promised hoarsely, smiling up at the Lady as she marked her place.

"Oh, do!" Éowyn said. "I declare I have not had such enjoyment for many weeks; I thank you from my heart, princess."

Lothíriel hesitated, then added, "I may be busy, as I have given a commitment of my time to the Warden. I must begin tomorrow."

The Lady frowned, but her tone was no less gracious as she said, "If it so be. I can read myself."

"But my cousin _is_ available, I believe, and also a patient here. He is mostly healed, and his voice not damaged at all. I can inquire of him if he might read to you; it will ease his impatience as well."

Éowyn inclined her head. "I would be grateful to meet a relation of yours." And they parted on friendly terms; Lothíriel quite liked Éomer's sister already, if being his sister was not reason enough. Despite the Lady's clear unhappiness, her heart was true and might bloom under better circumstances. She promised herself she would seek Éowyn's wellbeing as oft as she might.

Upon departing the chamber, Lothíriel wandered through the corridors, pausing as she passed a low archway into the gardens. Her cousin was pacing there, and with a smile she sought his company, thinking he might need her, too.

"Faramir," she said gently, and he was drawn from a reverie. Despite the sling holding his wounded arm to his chest, he looked as composed as ever, and he was quick to offer her a smile as he always did.

"Hail, Lothíriel!" he replied. "I did not expect such a fair intrusion. What brings you to the Houses of Healing?"

"Lady Éowyn of Rohan. Have you yet made her acquaintance?"

"Nay, I have not, though I know of her deeds upon the battlefield, and that her brother rode away this morn with the Armies of the West. How does she fare? Lord Aragorn was concerned of her health, as was your father."

Lothíriel took a place by Faramir at a large arched window, overlooking the fields far below. Still it smoked, and a dark trail where the soldiers had so recently trod snaked away from the city and to the east. But no armies were in sight.

"She…is not yet healed," she said cautiously. "A good deal of cheer and hope would restore her to herself, I think. Might you attend to her? I have given her books and read to her this afternoon, which was welcomed. I believe she may need company most of all."

"I see," Faramir said. "If it be her wish, I can certainly provide company. The Warden does not allow me to attend my duties, though the city needs me." His tone had grown bitter as he looked away with brows creased, and Lothíriel laid a hand upon his good arm.

"You must take the time you have been given to rest," she said. "Then you may be whole all the faster, and be a better steward for it."

This speech earned her a smile, despite the flicker of grief in Faramir's eyes; for his father, she surmised. "Now that we have discussed _my_ emotional state, cousin, I wonder at yours. How do you fare?"

Lothíriel was quiet for a moment. It was a struggle to put such aching fear into words, but still she tried: "I fear the oncoming death," she said at last. "I cannot but hope for survival, yet I wonder at the cost."

"Whatever the cost, much may heal with time," Faramir said. She smiled at this, hoping so with all her heart. Suddenly he paused, and his keen eyes turned searching, curious. "Lothíriel, you are full-grown!" he said, as if in surprise. "I had not noticed—forgive me, cousin!"

"You need not ask forgiveness!" she laughed. "I daresay _I_ have hardly noticed."

"Nay, 'tis a breach of familial conduct," he insisted. Faramir then hesitated for a moment before lowering his voice. "I confess I had forgotten until this moment, but I must tell you now. The day you were born, cousin, I dreamt of you."

Lothíriel blinked in surprise to see a fey light in his grey eyes.

"I dreamt of you as your own woman, looking exactly as you do now, yet you wore a crown of stars. That is all I remember," he added sheepishly. "I was young at the time; had I the wisdom, I might have written a full account."

After a stunned moment, she could answer, "I am sure no harm will come of your forgetting. It seems an odd dream, Faramir, and I wager it means little! But I thank you for telling me."

He was quiet, still studying her face as if seeing something that was not there. Then he sighed, and his familiar smile was once more beaming. "I would wager it means more than you believe," he said. "Whatever death you fear, it will not be your own."

"A relief, to be sure," Lothíriel teased, and he laughed. The awkward solemnity between them gone, she took her leave of Faramir, deeply weary as her feet at last took her home.

Her father's house was lonely and empty, but that made it all-too familiar. Her thoughts were elsewhere as she ate a plain supper provided by the single cook, and readied herself for bed soon after. She wondered at what Faramir had said as she tucked herself into bed _. A crown of stars_. Lothíriel's imagination, nurtured by long years with little company, immediately seized upon that notion and paired it with Éomer. He was king now, and reflecting upon their first meeting, she was amazed that such a thing could have happened, but she knew of no better man to rule. Or was that merely her heart speaking?

She twisted his mother's ring around her finger, yawning deeply. If Faramir's dream meant that she was to be a queen, she would certainly wish it to be for Éomer…did he wish the same? A blossom of warm hope built in her breast, and kept the darkness at bay.


	12. Strain This Chaos, Turn it Into Light

_21 March 3019 T.A., The Houses of Healing_

A terrible shriek tore through the still, night air. Lothíriel jolted awake from where she was dozing on a thin pallet, and she rubbed her eyes as her ears rang with the echoes of the scream. She pulled herself to her weary feet, straightening her grey smock and walking as if in a daze in the direction that the shriek had come from.

It was near midnight; were it not for the scarce torches lit for safety, she would not be able to see where she was going. The Houses of Healing were still; the wounded slept fitfully, and the healers snatched what sleep they could between rounds, before they were woken yet again by soldiers in pain or suffering from nightmares.

She entered the chamber where the shriek had come from, and immediately sensed a horrible trembling in one of the cots nearest the door. Lothíriel crouched beside it, placing her hand on the soldier's pale face, sheened with perspiration and his eyes wild and distant.

A fever, as she might have expected. And likely nightmares as well. She fetched water and clothes from a well-stocked table in the chamber, and returned to his side. The soldier thrashed away from her as he moaned aloud, his eyes squeezed shut. The water sloshed onto the linens.

Her heart twisted at the man's suffering. Unwearyingly Lothíriel dampened a cloth in the cool water and pressed it gently to his forehead, his unshaven cheeks, his neck. She frowned; his skin was far too hot, even for a fever.

Another healer had entered, making no sound, and Lothíriel glanced up as the healer bent over, lifting the lid of one of the man's eyes.

"Delirium," the healer said confidently.

"What of his wounds?" Lothíriel asked in a hush. "Might I change the dressings, perhaps?"

"If they need it, by all means. He was stuck in the gut, I believe."

Lothíriel lifted the tangle of blankets from around the soldier's arms, and then opened the front of his shift. A rank smell assaulted her senses, and she bit back bile rising in her throat. Stuck, indeed! What had once been undoubtedly an arrow piercing was now a raw, gaping wound of rotting flesh and blackened insides. There was a hiss from the healer as she caught sight of this.

"Go, girl! Fetch the warden at once. We need more skill here."

She jumped to her feet, obeying without question. It was a relief to breathe the cool night air in the corridors, though to her dismay the image of the man's decimated body would not leave her vision. She was choking on nausea as she pounded her fist on the door to where the Warden slept, her breaths short and ragged.

The grumpy face of the Warden peeked through the door, holding a single candle and wearing a faded nightshirt. "What is it, girl?" he barked.

"A man—west chamber—I think he is dying—I was sent—"

The candle was set on a table behind the door, and the Warden fetched a dressing gown, pulling it over his shoulders as he followed her hasty steps. Lothíriel explained to him, as best she could, the soldier's wound before they arrived at the chamber. Immediately the Warden swooped down towards the soldier, speaking very quickly and quietly to the healer. The man was moaning aloud, and the noise was beginning to wake the other occupants of the room, who shifted restlessly in their own cots with grunts and groans of discomfort.

She felt awkward standing uselessly; she did not know what to do—if she _could_ do anything. The healer had stripped away the man's clothing, and she was putting some sticky salve on his flesh as the Warden tried to tip a vial of herbs into the man's mouth.

Lothíriel did fetch several more bandages, and laid them beside the man's cot should they be needed. As the healer and Warden hastened in their work, she was bumped aside awkwardly. She stood several paces away, wringing her hands together anxiously, wishing she could do _something_. But she was no more use here; her duties had run out, and she left the chamber to leave the healers to their task.

She no longer felt like sleeping; rest would elude her now. Instead, Lothíriel paused at her cold cot and picked up the blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders and making for the gardens of the Healing Houses, where she would most likely find peace.

It was a chilly night, and she was thankful for the blanket. Thousands of stars glittered above, but they were dim compared to the smoldering blazes in the sky where the eastern mountains stood tall. She wandered the empty stone path, making no noise, and somehow was not surprised to see her cousin's back as he faced the eastern view.

"Could you not sleep, Faramir?" Lothíriel asked gently, coming beside him. He turned, and gave a smile.

"Nay," he admitted. "I have slept too much of late. How are you?"

She chewed her lip for a moment, and then said, "I cannot sleep, either. But my issue is rather the opposite—I have little opportunity to rest, I become more tired, and sleep less."

"I am sorry."

"Do not be!" Lothíriel said with a hollow laugh. "I am pleased to work."

Faramir turned back to the east, and she saw that his brows were drawn together. His thoughts would be with the armies, then, as hers were. She did not know where they were, or where they ought to be—and so she glanced all around the mountains, giving a silent plea for the protection of those she loved.

"Do you visit Éowyn often?" Faramir asked abruptly.

"Oh—I have only been able to once since…since that first day," Lothíriel said.

"I have spoken with her." Her cousin's voice was low, resonant—and when she glanced up at him she saw a light in his eyes that was completely foreign to his visage. She stared, realized her rudeness, and then turned away with warm cheeks.

"That is well," Lothíriel managed to say. "She is in sore need of friendship, as I have always thought."

"Indeed."

They stood in silence for several moments more; the night crept on, and her legs began to ache from exhaustion. Eventually Lothíriel yawned hugely. "I should at least try to sleep," she said at last. "So should you, Faramir."

He smiled, his teeth flashing in the darkness. "I will, little cousin. Find your rest and your strength; you shall need it."

Lothíriel trudged back through the corridors. All was silent now; she paused by the west chamber, pushing in the door gently to see—

The Warden and healer were not there. The figure in the cot was utterly still, and a white sheet covered him head to toe.

She clasped her hand to her mouth, muffling her cry of dismay. Her knees nearly gave way, and she stumbled back to her cot. She barely reached it before collapsing, tears streaming down her face as she cried into the stiff pillow. Despite her work in the Healing Houses the last days, none of the patients she had tended had died. Those that were unfortunate enough were usually taken away so quickly that she merely saw glimpses of the healers hastily bearing away a cot. It hurt her head, it hurt her heart to think of the man's suffering, that he had _died_ …

Lothíriel tucked her knees to her chest, willing herself to control her weeping, and she hiccupped. Deep breaths, deep breaths…she could not react to death this way. She _could not_. She must be firm, she must be stern, she must be pragmatic…

There was no sleep that night, for the echo of the soldier's final shriek pierced her ears for many hours, and she could not dislodge it from her mind.

The days were endless, grey, and weary. It was not the last death, nor even the gloomiest—not two days later, a woman, swollen with child, was brought to the Healing Houses, to lay, bitterly weeping, by the cot of her husband who died not an hour before her arrival. She was evidently one of the first of the refugees to return to the city, and Lothíriel was kept busy at the doors of the Healing Houses, where eager women waited to know if their menfolk lived.

She had the unfortunate task of reading the lists which the Warden had compiled of the dead and injured. Occasionally she had the pleasure of informing a woman, _Yes, your son is alive! Yes, your husband survived!_ , but those were few, and most often punctuated by the news that they departed on the march to Mordor.

But most often, Lothíriel gave the worst tidings of all: _I am sorry. He is unaccounted for. My regrets_ — _he was killed on the Pelennor._ Or, _He lies in the Healing Houses. I will send a messenger when you may see him_.

No training, no experience—as princess of Dol Amroth or otherwise—could have prepared her for this. Lothíriel's ever-tender heart, always so ready to weep with those that wept and mourn with those that mourned, was overwhelmed and overcome by the grief she witnessed every day—nay, every _hour_. And when the crowds of women were gone, she tucked the lists away and gave herself to the mindless tasks of rolling bandages, folding and putting away clean linens, seeing that the supplies in each chamber were well-stocked, and that any soldier that needed water or food was provided for. It was all she could do, all she was useful for—and that was well, for she did not have the courage to look into men's eyes and to tell them they would die, or be disfigured the remainder of their lives, or never walk or speak again. _That_ , at least, was the duty of the healers.

Some nights later she was sent by the Warden to seek sleep at her own house that night, instead of on that thin cot. Lothíriel could not argue—she had not the strength for it—and aimlessly she walked home in the late afternoon light. The city was quiet; hushed, as if it had all gone to sleep at once. Her hearing felt muffled, and she tried to shake herself to rid the sensation, but to no avail. Then without warning, a bright light flashed in the sky, causing her to blink, and she heard with clarity the sound of shifting stones around her, as if the very walls of the city were crying aloud in triumph. Befuddled beyond belief, Lothíriel shielded her eyes from the golden sunset, staring out eastward—

The red flames in the mountains, which she had seen there as long as she could remember, were no more. She could see distant stars in the dim sky beyond.

"Oh," she said.

A cry went up from the watchtowers, but she was too tired to listen. Yet when she set her trudging steps again towards her father's house, somehow they did not seem so heavy.

"War's over, and I am sure of it," the grumpy old cook told her later, serving a hot bowl of soup made up of various odds and ends. They were sitting in the kitchen, Lothíriel still wearing the smock of the Healing Houses. This change in station had evidently made the old man more willing to speak candidly with her, and he sat down heavily with his own stew.

"That evil old mountain was a-flaming the day I was born, and I was sure it would be a-flaming 'till the day I die," he said through a mouthful of vegetables. "The new king's gone and defeated it, or I'm an oliphaunt's uncle."

Lothíriel smiled at this. "The air does feel different," she admitted. "More wholesome."

"That is just the city being emptied—less people to stink it up, your ladyship. It'll return soon enough."

And she did not argue the point.

She washed with cool water that night, and donned a clean shift for the first time in several days. It was luxurious, and tucking herself into bed, Lothíriel decided to thank the Warden for sending her away, as much as she had argued against it.

Éomer's ring still encircled her finger, and she held it up to the light of the taper, the red depth glittering. She had not thought of Éomer very much in the last days; a brief fear for his safety in the battle that surely must have passed seized her heart. But she comforted herself in the next moment. He had survived many battles before this one; he would return to her, she was sure…

But somehow, her heart was still hollow.


	13. How Was I to Find Out That I Crumble?

_10 April 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

There were shouts in the streets. The sound had grown too usual in the last weeks to pay it very much heed, and Lothíriel did not hasten her preparations to attend the Houses of Healing. Her plain dress was laced methodically, and she tied a clean apron over it, smoothing out the wrinkles. She plaited back her hair almost lazily, dreading in her heart of hearts returning to the stink of blood and the cries of wounded soldiers. But immediately she berated herself for such ungracious thoughts; the men had given much for the defense of her home. To wrap bandages and administer water and hot broth was a small price for _her_ to pay, however difficult it was.

The shouting grew nearer, and to her it seemed that it had entered the courtyard. Curious and not a little irritated, Lothíriel picked up her reticule and left her chamber at once.

To her utmost surprise, her father's captain was there, speaking to the housekeeper in low tones, and so he must not have been shouting. But why had he come? The armies had sent word they would be striking camp on the Fields of Cormallen several days earlier, and would remain there for the time being. As she approached, the housekeeper covered her mouth with her hand, barely stifling a cry of agony. Lothíriel hastened her steps.

"What is it, Captain Farad? Where is my father?"

The captain turned to her with a smart bow, his plumed helmet tucked under his arm as he extended two folded letters to her, which she accepted and tucked into her pocket. "He sends word from Cormallen," Farad said, straightening, and for the first time, she recognized the rippling anxiety in the man's face. Her stomach swooped with fear, and her next words are choked—

"What word?"

"Your brother has been taken to the Houses of Healing. Prince Imrahil wished you to be aware; he will enter the city when he may, and he puts Amrothos under your care—"

But Lothíriel did not hear the remainder of his explanation. Her head was ringing, and she could do nothing but blink stupidly at the captain. "Amrothos?" she choked at last, cutting him off rudely but not caring one whit.

"He was wounded severely at the Black Gate, princess. Lord Aragorn recommended he be sent into the city for better treatment."

"He—he is already there?"

"Yes, my lady."

Lothíriel remained to hear no more—on numb legs she rushed for the gate, the guards hurrying to open it for her before she burst into the street. Evidently Amrothos was not the only one brought to the Healing Houses, for the streets were blocked with wagons of moaning men, bandaged and bloody and soiled, and—

She held her hand to her nose, unable to bear the stink as she wove around carts and those carrying them. It was only a short walk to the Healing Houses, but never had it felt longer. Her heart was beating out of her breast, her stomach rolling and regretting the scarce breakfast she had consumed earlier.

"Warden, Warden!" Lothíriel cried, catching sight of his familiar figure amongst the new chaos in the main foyer. He was bent over a stretcher, but looked up when he heard her voice.

"Princess," he said, and he did not smile. "Go through—he is in the third chamber on the left."

The sight of her brother, her laughing, teasing brother, on a low cot and surrounded by healers was nearly too much for Lothíriel—she smelled blood and rotten flesh. There was a sharp exhale from Amrothos, and she heard him snap,

"It does _not_ need to be removed!"

"My lord, the infection has already spread—if it goes on, it will reach your internal organs and rot those too—"

Lothíriel pushed past the healer at the end of the cot, looking down in horror to see a mass of bandages around Amrothos's leg, red and green and brown and black—she did _not_ what to know what she was looking at. She swallowed past the rising bile in her throat.

"Lothíriel!" Amrothos said in surprise. His face was sunken, his black hair plastered to his face in its filth and his eyes glittered unnaturally. She did not need to have the healer's whispered explanation to know that he was fevered.

"Tell them that I can keep my leg, Lothíriel," Amrothos pleaded, lifting an arm to reach for her. Lothíriel crouched by his side immediately, grasping his hand tightly as she searched him for further injury, pushing back his hair and feeling his hot face.

"What happened?" she asked, hating the sight of his dirty, matted hair. It was so unlike him!

"A troll," he said dryly. "Those beasts are blasted quick, then though they don't look it. If Father tells you I have worsened this by my own stubbornness, do not listen to him—"

"He rode his horse all the way to Cormallen, my lady," the healer said, disapproval dripping off her every word. Amrothos scowled, and shut his mouth.

"Amrothos!" Lothíriel cried, aghast. "You _idiot_!"

"My lady, we really must remove the appendage before the infection spreads—already his flesh rots. It cannot be healed."

"No!" Amrothos said sharply, lifting his head to scowl at the healer. "I am confident in your abilities; I am sure you can save it—"

"I cannot undo this damage! This damage which _you_ have exacerbated!" the healer snapped back. Lothíriel glanced back in surprise; the woman's fists were on her hip, glaring down at Amrothos with equal fury that he gave. "If you keep your leg, you will die in a fortnight, I promise you that. Your blood is already poisoned; you very well may die anyways."

Lothíriel's breath caught in her throat, her fingers tightening on Amrothos's hand until he grunted and pulled himself from her grip.

"Ease up, sister," he said, then a flash of pain crossed his face as he shifted.

"Amrothos," she told him at once. "You _must_ allow them to remove your leg."

There was a weight of opinion that sisters evidently had that healers, occupation aside, did not. For upon her declaration Amrothos's expression stilled, and his eyes darted to her, and she saw, for the first time in her life—her brother _frightened_.

"You must trust the healers to do their work," Lothíriel said softly. "I—I will be here, if you wish. I shan't leave you."

A wan, hollow smile graced his usually-handsome face. "'Tis ugly work, Loth. You will not wish to see it."

She swallowed, clenching her shaking hands together as her gaze held his. "I will care for you, Amrothos. I will not leave."

A still, tense moment—and he gave the barest nod. A sigh of relief from the healer, and Lothíriel heard her start preparations at once. Then Amrothos's expression crumbled, and he closed his eyes tightly.

"Great Ulmo below, Lothíriel! I wish to have it over."

"It will be done quickly, I am sure," she said. "There are many wounded. You cannot monopolize _all_ the attention of the healers, unfortunately." This earned her a short laugh, which did little to hide his agony.

Lothíriel patted his hand and stood to give her help to the healer. There were clean bandages to fetch, poppy syrup for his comfort, and other things which she could not look upon without feeling as though she might vomit. Another healer was brought in for assistance.

She knelt by Amrothos's head once more, thankful at least for the draping linen which was fastened against the wall to keep the operation out of sight, though she could still hear the murmured conversation of the healers behind it. His face was ashen.

"You should not stay," he said a final time, and Lothíriel shook her head, not trusting herself to open her mouth.

"My lady, if you would give him this—"

A medicine was prepared, and she accepted the cup wordlessly from the healer, lifting Amrothos's head as best she could to help him drink. He grimaced at the taste, but finished it at her urging. Lothíriel's eyesight was growing spotty in her panic, the cup clattered to the ground when she tried to set it down carefully.

"Go on." Her brother's voice was hoarse, and his took her hands in a strong grip.

Her vision swam, and only her duty to Amrothos kept her from fainting. She squeezed his hand so tightly that her fingers were numb in a matter of moments, and she wished her ears were numb too. Those horrible, awful sounds of the healers at the gruesome work she would never forget. Amrothos, for his part, did not cry aloud, though he was forced to spit blood from biting his tongue into a handkerchief she held for him.

Eventually he groaned as his eyes fluttered shut, and her heart skipping a beat, Lothíriel called for one of the healers—but she was assured that he had merely fainted.

"And better for it, too," the girl said, for Lothíriel realized that the healer was younger even than herself, though her eyes were as tired beyond her years. The healer's arms were covered in blood up to her elbows, where her sleeves were rolled, and Lothíriel swallowed, but to no avail—she rushed for the chamber pot on shaking legs, and deposited her breakfast posthaste. The work was nearly done, though she did not look towards it as she returned to her brother's side, a headache growing in her head.

There was only the cauterization to be done, and to distract herself from the nightmare sure to come, Lothíriel pressed cool cloths to Amrothos's head to try to ease his fever. His head rolled restlessly, his brow creased—and as soon as the sizzling iron was pressed into his flesh he at last cried aloud, and the awful stink of burning flesh filled the small chamber.

"It is over," Lothíriel soothed him, drawing his face to look into hers. His expression was wild, unseeing as he blinked around. "Amrothos!" she said loudly, but he fainted once more.

"He did well, my lady."

The healers were now cleaning their supplies, and Lothíriel glanced over, unable to form a smile.

"Will he be well?" she asked in a low voice. "Will—will he live?"

The young healer held her gaze, pausing in her bundling together bloodied bandages. "Ioreth has an excellent regime against the poisoning of the blood," she said. "But it is not infallible. Yet your brother is strong. You have good reason to hope, providing that he rests."

"I have a dosage of turmeric and garlic tea prepared," cut in the other healer, her voice sharp. "That is for when he wakes. For now, a bread poultice. Cease dawdling, Careth, and get to it!"

The girl blushed, and obeyed. Lothíriel returned her attention to Amrothos, whose face was devoid of all color despite the sheen of sweat upon it. She began again to wash her brother's face, tears building in her eyes as the shock of what had just happened took over her consciousness.

It was many hours later that she was at last prevailed upon by the Warden to leave her brother's side. He informed her he had need of her the following morning, but involved in other duties than coddling a man who would live or die whether she was beside him or not. The words were harsh, but barely broke through her haze.

Lothíriel walked home slowly, breathing in the smell of the night air—filled with cooking fires and the human stink that Minas Tirith had in such abundance. Above her, the sky twinkled with stars unsympathetic to the piercing pain in her heart.

What would her father say when he found out Amrothos was crippled, and in danger of dying?

More tears came then, and sniffling them back, uncaring whether she was seen in such a state—Lothíriel remembered the letters which Captain Farad had given her. She found an empty place on the low wall next to a lit torch, pulling the parchment from her pocket to at last give it her attention.

The first letter was from her father. It was short and to the point: _Amrothos is in grave danger from his wound. See to him, and see that he is cared for. I cannot enter the city before our new King, so I place him under your responsibility. Erchirion, Elphir and I are unwounded—worry not for us._

And beneath this note was another, thicker parchment, which with numbed astonishment Lothíriel recognized Éomer's handwriting upon it, addressed clearly to her. She broke the seal, and read,

 _Dearest Lothíriel,_

 _I may confess now that the danger has passed, that I feared I might never write your name again or see your lovely face. My relief is a hundredfold! But these things I would rather tell you in person. Will you come to Cormallen, when and if you may leave Amrothos in the care of the healers? Your family would also be pleased to see you, but I most of all, I think in my selfish happiness._

 _I have also invited Éowyn to come. Perhaps you may ride together. I await your response—_

 _Éomer_

She read the message several times before she could understand. The sighing relief of Éomer unhurt barely pierced her grief for Amrothos, and she allowed a smile which she did not feel. Whether she could attend Cormallen, she did not know—and so she tucked both letters back into her pocket, and rose onto her aching feet to finish the journey home.

The respite she sought in sleep did not come that night.


	14. Just One Breath Could Shatter Me

_1 May 3019 T.A., The Houses of Healing_

Éomer's hasty steps took him through each corridor of the Healing Houses, twice. His eager eyes glanced around for Lothíriel, undeterred by his initial failing to find her. If this was where she was supposed to be, it was where she was—he did not doubt it. He was not particularly concerned that she had not responded to his note; after all, he knew she would be busy giving her time and efforts where she was needed.

When he did at last see her, he almost did not recognize her—for she did not see _him_ , carrying a load of folded linens in her arms, her hair tied back and her eyes almost expressionless. He was taken back by this change, but hailed her at once.

Lothíriel started, blinking around until she saw him, and he strode towards her, nearly knocking over a healer in his rush as he crossed the corridor.

"Éomer," she said, and her voice was faint.

"Lothíriel!" He gave her a wry smile. "Are you so surprised to see me? A better greeting might do!"

At this teasing her lips formed a lovely, though vacant smile, though she made no move, towards him or otherwise.

"Will you not sit with me?" Éomer coerced gently.

"I will," Lothíriel said, and looking around for a blank moment, set the linens down on an empty bench. She took his arm when he offered it, though said nothing as he drew her to the gardens where they might have privacy. They sat together somewhere in the middle, almost out of sight behind a budding magnolia tree. Éomer picked up her chilled hands in his own, drinking in the sight of her face—Béma, he had missed her! Though the last weeks could not compare with four years apart, it still seemed a lifetime since she had bidden him farewell in the streets of Minas Tirith.

"How is your work?" he asked abruptly to her silence.

She shifted uncomfortably. "It is difficult," Lothíriel said quietly, as if it were a secret. "I—I am sorry I did not reply to your message—"

"Think nothing of it, my sweet! You are forgiven." Éomer beamed down at her; really, he could not be upset. But the lack of answering smile _did_ bother him a mite, and he lifted her chin to gaze into her eyes.

For the first time, he felt that he could not quite understand her. He frowned, studying her expression for a reason. Her eyes were rimmed with purple as if from lack of sleep, and without a smile her laugh lines made her appear stern. Her eyes were soft, thankfully, but he still wondered.

"Difficult indeed," Éomer murmured. "I do hope you are not overexerting yourself."

"Oh! Not at all," she assured him at once, though he could not quite believe her.

"Lothíriel," he said sternly. "You mustn't let the Warden bully you into working beyond your strength. Nor must you allow your good heart to overcome your sense. If you are tired, you _must_ rest. Every sol—every person knows that!" He had nearly said 'soldier', but recalled to whom he was speaking. Lothíriel was no soldier.

"How kindly you care for me," Lothíriel said, and at last a real smile formed on her face. "I am merely preoccupied, Éomer; I beg of you not to be troubled for _me_."

He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs, her sweet smell wafting towards him. Béma…he wanted her. All of her. His heart began to drum in his chest.

"May I call upon you tomorrow?" Éomer asked in a rush.

"I am afraid not—tomorrow the last rites for my uncle and cousin will take place."

Blast! "The day after, then," he said.

"I will be home." Lothíriel's voice was quiet, and her eyes unfocused once more. "I will not be returning to the Healing Houses after tonight. You see—that is why you must not concern yourself that I am overworked."

Éomer chuckled at this restoration of her humor, and her cheeks flushed a becoming shade of pink. Impulsively he lowered his head and kissed each cheek, and then her nose—and then after a breathless, startled moment—her lips. His fingers tangled in her hair, surely mussing it but he could not care, liking too much the soft moan from her throat—

"Lothíriel…" he murmured, pulling away to rest his forehead against hers. "Lothíriel. The day after tomorrow. I promise."

She nodded her head, staring at him in bafflement as she drew in ragged breaths. "I must go," she said, startling him as she stood. "I am sorry, Éomer, truly…" Lothíriel gave him a final, wan smile, and rushed away, leaving him alone in the gardens. But he was too joyful to care her abrupt departure. Soon they need never be apart again…

* * *

 _2 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Lothíriel was cold. She wore a white cloak over her white frock, mourning clothing which she had owned many a year but never worn—and still she was cold. She shivered beside Erchirion, and the sky above them drizzled with weeping rain.

Citadel soldiers clanked down the walkway, their footsteps eerie and loud in the still silence. Between six was borne the standard of Denethor, and between six others was Boromir's. It had been many months since she had last seen her cousin's standard in the wind; announcing his arrival from Osgiliath or whatever other outpost his father had sent him too, and she recalled the days when he had teased her and laughed with her. Erchirion's hand was tight upon her arm in support. Amrothos should have been there to honor his family, and yet he, too, had been struck down by this war—

Lothíriel did not bother to stop the silent tears streaming down her face. She did not merely _feel_ cold; she _was_ cold. She felt as though she was made of ice, detached from the mourners around her as the standards were carried to the Houses of the Dead. Boromir's body would not rest with his ancestors the stewards; nor would Denethor's. But still they were honored.

So much death! How could there be any room in her heart for happiness when the world was clouded with such grief, such destruction? Everything was broken; the city, the soldiers she saw in the Houses of Healing; their families…all torn apart by such evil.

There was a sniffling near her as the shrouds passed before them. Curious, for it was the only noise besides the soldiers' boots stamping on the ground, Lothíriel blinked back her tears to gaze around. To her left, nearer the Houses of the Dead and close to her father, who stood beside the new king, the four _perian_ were watching the procession. Their expressions were varied; regretful and sad, wary, curious, and lastly—mournful, with fat tears rolling down his red cheeks. She was surprised, for a moment, that they were there—last rites usually only involved families and very dear friends. Lothíriel had heard that one of the _perian_ had served Denethor in the steward's last days; perhaps she should have given more credit to the gossip.

She pulled away from Erchirion, walking towards the Houses and pausing by the _perian_ ; she did not know them, and they did not know her, but drawing their eyes away from the banners now entering the Houses of the Dead, they were unhostile. Friendly, even.

Lothíriel tugged a handkerchief from the reticule hanging from her wrist, offering it to the _perian_ who was weeping. He gave her a beaming smile through his tears, which she could not help but return. The smile she gave stretched her face painfully, for she felt as though she had not smiled in many days. The _perian_ bowed low to her, accepting the handkerchief.

"I thank you, Princess Lothíriel," he said correctly. "Your father spoke of your kindness, but now I know he was not exaggerating. Fathers do that sometimes in the Shire, I must assume it can be the same here."

A weak giggle lodged in her throat. "Indeed, they are."

"Princess Lothíriel?" interrupted another _perian_ , his fair eyes curious upon her face. "King Éomer spoke of you at Cormallen."

Lothíriel could sense her father's eyes upon this conversation, and she flushed pink despite herself. "Éomer and I have been friends for many years," she said by way of explanation, avoiding Imrahil's gaze.

"Did you know Boromir well? He told us of you as well, but very little." asked a third. His voice was gentle, and he was thinnest of the _perian_.

"Well as I could," she said. "He was many years older than I, but he—he was always kind to m—me." Her voice wavered on the last words. Grief burned anew in her breast, and her eyes flooded with tears. Quickly she dropped her gaze, wringing her hands awkwardly, ashamed to show such sadness to the _perian_. Forcing a hollow laugh, she added, "It seems you know much of me from those I love! I wonder—" And Lothíriel clamped her mouth shut, her face flushing hot as she realized her blunder in front of her father. But a hasty glance at Imrahil confirmed his expression was merely mild, looking away.

"It is a pleasure to meet the princess of Gondor at last," said the third _perian_ , and he bowed briefly.

"Thank you for the handkerchief!" said the first, waving it at her cheerily, though now it was damp and splotchy.

"You are most welcome." Lothíriel curtseyed low. "I am pleased to have been of assistance." But before she could return to Erchirion, her father called her name, and she went to him with nerves rolling in her belly. With the passing of the shrouds, the mourners were breaking into quiet conversations around them.

"My daughter," Imrahil said, holding out a hand to her. "You have yet to be introduced to your king."

The King's grey eyes turned to her, and immediately Lothíriel dipped into a low curtsey, unable to look away.

"My daughter, Lothíriel," her father said.

"Well met, my lady," the King said, and he gave her a short bow in return. He was dressed formally, but plainly; no embellishments adorned his doublet. And his eyes, though piercing and keen, were kind. Lothíriel was relieved to see this, and it must have shown—for the King smiled down at her. "I have heard much of you, not unlike our friends." His sight flitted to the _perian_ , and she forced a smile.

"It seems nearly everyone has, my lord," she said. "I cannot respond to such tales without feeling embarrassed."

The King gazed at her a moment. "You needn't be embarrassed if they are true, I assure you. I have heard that you are lovely, kind, well-mannered, and able to hold your own against all three of your brothers. I see nothing to contradict these things."

She blinked, feeling foolish. Had her father spoken of her? Or—oh dear, _Éomer?_ She could hardly bear thought of Éomer discussing her with her new king! Oh! Oh no!

The King gave a short laugh. "Do not fear me, my lady," he said. "I apologize for teasing."

Lothíriel forced a smile, and with a satisfied nod from her father she was dismissed.

Later that night, she lay in bed, staring at the dim ceiling of her chamber as her fingers tapped restlessly against the quilted covers in time with the pattering rain on the tiled roof. Her stomach was twisting this way and that, with belated anxiety from the morning's grief and unexpected meetings. It was long after the fire in the hearth smoldered that she finally felt weariness weighing down her limbs, and she yawned, hoping for no dreams that night—

A flashing memory stuttered her heart then, though her heavy eyes did not open. _May I call upon you tomorrow?_ , Éomer had asked. It was likely for the best that she had refused Erchirion's suggestion of an early-morning ride, then. Truthfully, she had thought little of Éomer all day, and instead of a thrilling excitement of seeing him again, or of the insinuation of his unusually formal request, Lothíriel felt only emptiness.

She rose late the next morning. Without the taxing duties of the Healing Houses to attend to, Lothíriel ordered a bath and lingered in the hot water, sunk down to her nose with her dark hair floating around her. She was determined to think of nothing at all, and succeeded.

Sometime around noon Lothíriel slowly made way for her solar, refusing luncheon and sitting instead with a book. It did not hold her interest, and in the hour it took Éomer to arrive, she had only turned three pages.

And there he was, tall and handsome as ever, dressed formally and looking jittery but happy as he sat beside her, and the maid left the room with a _click_ of the door. Lothíriel did not feel like smiling, but forced one for his sake as he took her hands. Her hearing was weirdly muted, and she stared at his mouth as he spoke. The words seemed to come from far away, barely piercing her awareness.

 _Be my wife_ , he said. _I cannot be happy but with you by my side…_

How can anyone be happy?, was her hollow thought. With such destruction _everywhere_? How can anyone consider peace and contentment when so many families have been torn apart?

And she gave the answer of her grief, of her pain, her misery and confusion, forgetting the long years of affection which had been built between them. Without truly thinking, she tore it down with her refusal, and lost him forever.

But she hardly knew yet the consequences of it.


	15. Gone With the Wind

_3 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Éomer tore at the tie which held the velvet cape to his throat, barging through the oaken door into the receiving chamber which he shared with his sister. She was curled up in a plush chair near the fire, wrapped in a shawl and absorbed in a book. He slammed the door behind him, and Éowyn looked up in surprise.

This sort of temper, which had occurred often enough during their youth, had not plagued Éomer for many years. Immediately Éowyn knew that something had happened. There was a tick in his cheek, and he leaned one arm against the stone wall as he stared out the window, his face half-hidden. His fingers were clenched in a white-knuckled fist.

Éowyn marked her page in the book, swinging her legs down to sit primly, correctly guessing that he had no intention of explaining, nor even of speaking unless inquired of.

"Éomer—" she began.

"What?" he snapped back at her, interrupting.

"There is no need for rudeness," Éowyn said coolly. "Tell me what has happened."

His mouth was set in an unyielding line, and without looking at her he growled, "She refused me."

Éowyn blinked in surprise. Lothíriel had refused Éomer? _That_ was truly astonishing, considering what she knew of her brother's affections, and princess's. In fact, Éowyn had not been the least bit surprised when Éomer had made known his intention to marry Lothíriel with all due haste following his return from the Black Gate.

And Éowyn had been ecstatic for him, and for Lothíriel. She admired the princess herself; Lothíriel was compassionate, lively, and had a good deal of sense. The book which Éowyn had been reading was one which Lothíriel had brought to the Healing House for her. And Faramir had confided in Éowyn how much his cousin cared for her brother. They had _all_ expected a happy match, and a quick one.

"Did she tell you why?" Éowyn asked, her fingers tapping restlessly against the cover of her book.

"No." His voice was short, full of suppressed anger. She frowned; it all seemed unlike Lothíriel. But, without an explanation, she could hardly judge the princess nor offer her brother any comfort.

"I am confident she has a sensible reason," Éowyn ventured. "Lothíriel is not a fickle woman."

"I never believed so before," Éomer said bitterly. "But now I wonder." And he turned away from her, stomping away to the door which led to his private chamber, which he disappeared through with another _slam_.

Éowyn stared at the door for a moment. Then without hesitation stood and strode to the writing desk, pulling forth a sheaf of parchment and dipping a quill—

 _Faramir,_

 _If you recall our subject of discussion this morning, I would inform you that matters have not proceeded as we expected. My brother is in distress, and if you care for your cousin, respond at once—_

 _É_

She sent it with a page at once, and sat down again before the fire, though now she had little concentration for reading. A restless anxiety for Éomer's wellbeing and for Lothíriel set her pacing, biting her fingernails as she ought not to be doing. Should she not have summoned Faramir? Should they not interfere? But her brother's happiness was at stake! She could not sit and do nothing; it was not in her nature, not matter now ill-considered it might be. Absorbed in her thoughts, she nearly jumped when a knock sounded at the door at last.

"Faramir!" Éowyn sighed in relief, and she rushed towards him, and he caught in her a tender embrace.

"Tell me what has happened."

The story spilled from her lips even before she had drawn him to the chairs by the hearth, and with the comfort and solace of his strong hand on hers Éowyn no longer feared her confidence in him. Faramir would know; he knew Lothíriel well, and his sight would reveal much.

When she finished, Faramir said nothing. His solemn gaze was on the fire as he absently stroked her hand. At last he stirred, and said, "I cannot understand."

"But you must!" Éowyn insisted, then lowered her voice, lest Éomer hear. "Faramir, your sight—"

"Reveals nothing." He paused, and then turned to her with a sad smile. "I once dreamed of Lothíriel robed in green and wearing a crown of white stars. I told her such the day the host marched from the city. I knew then of her preference for your brother. As I told you this morning—I was prepared to offer them my congratulations as easily as you."

"Green is the color of the fields of Rohan! Even _I_ can understand such symbolism!" Éowyn said in agony. "Faramir, I am certain they love each other—"

"But we must doubt it now, Éowyn, at least on her part. I wonder now—" He thought for a long moment, which grated on Éowyn's overexcited nerves even more before he spoke again. "She has been quieter these last days. I thought her merely tired, but with this…it may be more."

Éowyn frowned. "This cannot be, Faramir!" she said. "Whatever troubles have arisen, I fear they may be insurmountable! For Éomer, while he takes offence rarely, forgives almost never!"

"I should not wonder if Lothíriel has taken Amrothos's injury too much to heart," Faramir said. "It would be very much like her, for she bears the burdens of others at whatever cost to herself. And at my father's last rites…she looked unwell. I should have sought to give her more comfort then…"

"If you speak to her, I will try to reason with Éomer—they cannot leave this unresolved. Oh, Béma! He has loved her so long—" And with her heart piercing to feel her brother's pain, Éowyn felt tears gather in her eyes.

"We should not interfere," Faramir said gently, holding her face in his hands as his gaze searched hers with concern. "Of that much I am sure. I am sorry, Éowyn…"

She nodded, accepting his wisdom despite not truly wishing to. The vague hopes she had had of a shared wedding must be shut away, and with a sigh, she leaned into Faramir's willing comfort with weary dreams.

* * *

Lothíriel was lying in her bed curled in a protective ball, atop the covers and still fully dressed, when her father knocked on the door sometime that evening. With almost insurmountable effort, she opened her mouth and called in a weak voice for him to enter. Her head was pounding, and her nose stuffy from both the chill she had taken from the damp day before and from weeping.

It was dark; the sun had long set and she had never lit the candles. There was a silence as her father's footsteps entered, then she heard him strike a flint and a piercingly bright glare lit the chamber. Lothíriel squeezed her eyes shut.

There was a dip of weight on the bed as Imrahil sat beside her, and she felt his caressing touch as he pushed limp hair from her face with great tenderness; something he had not done since she was a child. The very action burst the well of controlled grief in her breast, and tears began to leak freely from her closed eyes.

"Oh, Lothíriel…" his voice was soft. "What has happened?"

A sob shook her body. She tightened her own hold on herself, burrowing her face into the pillow so that her father did not see her agony. But that comfort was short lived—gently Imrahil lifted her by the shoulders, drawing her into his arms. The familiar though mostly forgotten embrace of her loving father broke her entirely, and she began to weep in earnest.

Her father did not speak again for several minutes, allowing her to completely spend her tears, which were many. At last she hiccupped through the last stream of sobs, and the chamber grew quiet once more. Imrahil's head was resting on her chin, and though she did not know it, the tears of a father witnessing his daughter so distraught dampened her hair.

"I am sorry," she said in a hoarse whisper.

Imrahil stirred. "Nay, you have nothing for which to be sorry," he assured her. "Certainly not for wetting my doublet—'tis only clothing, my love."

Lothíriel smiled, an empty smile, into the dim light of the chamber, though she was sure he could not see.

"Will you confide in me, daughter? I would ease your pain, if I may."

This gentle request knotted the painful strings in her breast once more, but she merely gave a shaky sigh. How could she speak to her father of Éomer, and in such miserable terms? She could not. It was too raw, too sensitive. What would he think of her? So her rely was merely, "I have done wrong by someone whom I love."

"I see," Imrahil said after a moment. "And is this an offense which may be repaired?"

 _No!_ her heart cried, and Lothíriel pressed her fist to her mouth to keep from making a sound against her will. At her silence, her father offered further,

"If it is your doing, an apology made in sincerity may—"

"My doing? How am I to know if _I_ am at fault? The only thing I may know of a surety is that I know nothing." Lothíriel drew away from her father's embrace, sitting on her feet and clenching her shaking hands tightly together. Imrahil continued to study her gravely, his face betraying nothing. "I only wish things may have gone differently—" she began to say, "But they did not. And I cannot hope for forgiveness."

If they had gone differently—if Éomer had not offered marriage to her that day. If she had not witnessed such horrors from the war, to turn her inclination against happiness in such a time of grief. That the shock had not spurred on a sense of such _guilt_ for loving, when such love was torn apart by evil—

"Daughter," Imrahil said, and his voice was cautious. "You may consider the limits of your own understanding. When one is young, it is too easy to view the world in such cases as only two-sided; black and white, wrong and right. The wisdom of knowing that matters are most often far more complicated comes with age, I am afraid—but I would that you do not despair so easily. I venture to say you do not comprehend fully of your offended's feelings, however you may try to guess them. To handle such a delicate situation…I would advise only not to assume your guilt, nor theirs."

Lothíriel was entirely certain, knowing Éomer as she did, that he would not forgive her. He was removed from her forever…and that very realization, awful in all its surety and damning her to lifetime of unhappiness for having lost the one she loved most, broke her heart completely. She had not realized, until that moment, the very last threads holding it together were Éomer himself. Shaken to the core down by death and destruction and Amrothos's terrible ordeal, Éomer had been her steady comfort…but no more would he be, and she felt her face drain of blood.

"You are unwell," Imrahil declared, picking up her limp hand at once. "I will send a maid to care for you. You must rest; I will make your excuses at supper tonight."

She could only blink at him.

"The feast in Merethrond, do you recall?" he asked, now frowning at her apparent forgetfulness. But Lothíriel could make no response. "It is to farewell Elphir and his knights before they depart in the morning for Dol Amroth. Now _that_ , I am sure, you remember!"

She was surprised from her stupor. "Elphir? Tomorrow?" she cried aloud. "Oh, Father, _allow me to leave with him, I beg of you_!"

The earnest plea startled Imrahil, she saw—his expression stilled as his frown deepened. "You are unwell," he repeated. "And it is a long journey."

"Rest will restore me, I am sure of it! Please, let me accompany him!" Lothíriel begged. "Let me return home! Let me be of use to Elphir and his family—let me see the sea again!" _Let me never behold Éomer again, nor anything that reminds me of this awful day, these awful weeks…_

It was a moment longer before her father replied. "If you are resolute," he said slowly. "I would not gainsay you."

"Oh, thank you!" And impulsively, numb with relief that she might leave this city and find peace elsewhere, she threw her arms 'round her father's neck, and he grunted in surprise.

"Lothíriel, I must advise against this if your true motivation is to leave the cause of your distress. If not resolved, the breach may only deepen."

"Father," she said, pulling away from him to gaze balefully up at him. "I have not seen my home in many years. May my desire to see it not outweigh other considerations?"

Imrahil was frowning, but he nodded shortly. "So be it, then. Have the belongings you need packed tonight, for you will leave at dawn tomorrow."

By the time her father took his leave a few minutes later, Lothíriel felt enormously better. She had only to leave her cares and regrets behind as she returned home at long last, and she would be free from distress in the city of her childhood and the palace of her dreams…

That she was leaving her heart behind did not bear consideration, and so she ignored it completely.


	16. Haunted by the Ghost of You

_May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith and Beyond_

Amrothos grew restless in the Healing Houses long before the Warden declared that he might return home. The white-washed walls were boring, the arched ceiling was dull, there was no one to speak to except the healers and whichever relative of his remembered to visit him that day. Lothíriel had, of course, come every day—until Erchirion came to inform him that their eldest brother and sister had left for Dol Amroth.

"Blast," Amrothos said irritably. "She is the only sibling I have that visits me."

Erchirion was not incensed so easily, brushing this off. "If you are intent on being so ungrateful, I shall cease coming. She _did_ leave without being betrothed, if that interests you."

It did interest him. Amrothos propped himself upon an elbow, ignoring the lancing pain through the stump of his leg at this action. "Without being betrothed? But _why_?"

" _I_ can hardly know the details," Erchirion snapped back.

"What of Éomer, then?"

"He is grouchy as an old man, on the rare occasions that I see him."

Amrothos scratched his chin. "They will reconcile," he said at last. "I am sure of it."

"I am not so sure," Erchirion said. "I have never seen Éomer in such moods before. And do you not recall Lothíriel's insistence to stay in Minas Tirith? It does not align with leaving off one morning with hardly a by-your-leave."

"I am sure," Amrothos said confidently. "Would you care to make a wager?"

His brother cocked a brow, clearly unimpressed. "On our sister?"

"She needn't know. We can make it small, say…ten silver pieces."

Erchirion pursed his lips for a moment, finally shaking his head in resignation. "Very well! Father insists that we humor you in your illness, so I accept your wager."

"Very funny," Amrothos retorted. "Father said no such thing."

Erchirion said nothing, merely shrugging in response.

"…Did he?"

Soon after the brothers parted, and Amrothos was left alone once more. He was more annoyed that he would admit that Lothíriel had left Minas Tirith; truly he found little solace in any company but hers. Her teasing was gentler than their brothers', and her concern for him never wavered.

A healer came by some hours later. Amrothos's restless impatience was growing, and when his bandages were unwrapped for his wound to be inspected, he snapped out unduly at the sudden pain of it.

"You are causing it to hurt worse! Are you a healer, or a torturer?"

The woman paused, her eyes travelling slowly up to his face. The sense of having been unkind—nay, more than unkind—with someone who did not deserve it began to prick at him at her steady gaze, and he swallowed.

"If you would prefer, you may change your own bandages and I shan't be bothered one bit. There is much work elsewhere for me, for those who desire it," she said coolly. "But if you are wishing medicine for the pain, you must suffer us _healers_. By all means, choose your way as you see fit."

Her eyes were green, pure and dark, and a chestnut curl had escaped from her grey head covering. These things normally might not have caught his attention, but the expression upon her face—proud and weary, irritated and stern, turned his prick of conscience into real remorse. Amrothos knew at once that if Lothíriel had witnessed him just then, she would have given him a terrible scold, which he likely deserved.

"I apologize," he said at once, the words bitter. He was not in the habit of apologizing, but forced himself to go on, leaning back on his pillow to stare at the ceiling to gain some relief. "I should not have lost my temper."

"I must agree," the healer said, and she returned to her task. There was more pulling and tugging on the bandages, and Amrothos bit his tongue to distract himself from the peeling agony. It did not suffice. "Your leg has scabbed over nicely," she told him. "Once the skin beneath heals enough to shed the scab, you should be well enough to leave the Healing Houses."

"And how long will that be?"

"Two or three weeks, by my estimation." She was now rolling out fresh, snowy-white bandages, and she smiled upwards at him before uncorking a bottle of salve. "It will feel much longer than it is, I assure you, my lord." The salve was cool on his inflamed skin, and her fingers gentle. Her lips were pressed together in concentration, and even from where he lay he could see her dark lashes against the paleness of her cheek. Despite the stodgy uniform the healers wore, he thought she could be deemed pretty enough.

"What is your name?" he asked, deciding that conversation was like to be more distracting that staring at the ceiling.

"I am Careth, my lord."

"And where do you come from, Careth?"

"Yonder in Cair Andros," she said, and her voice turned quiet. "I came to Minas Tirith in the winter to train with the healers, and none too soon. My brothers fell defending our home."

Amrothos did not respond straightway; this healer's story was all too common. "Did your parents survive?" he asked.

Her smile was tight, but kind. "They died when I was young," she said. "River fever. I have no relations nearer than a second cousin, now." Careth cleaned her hands on her apron, and then began to wind the bandage around his leg—his stump, he must now think of it, Amrothos thought dispassionately.

"I heard rumor that your sister has left Minas Tirith," Careth said softly after a moment. "She was of great help during our darkest days; I would that you convey to her our thanks and best wishes."

Amrothos let out a low breath as she tied off the bandage. "I will," he said.

"I thank you." She bundled away the bloodied bandages before turning back with a smile. "I have a syrup to numb the pain. It will make you sleep."

"No, thank you," Amrothos said, despite the yearning temptation of empty solace. "I am well enough to be alert. Will you come again?" There was an odd feeling in his chest, a feeling that the company of a kind healer, even a stranger, would better ease his spirits than any medicine. He missed Lothíriel more than ever, but clearly he would have to make do with whom he could find.

"I will." Careth stood, bending over briefly to touch his forehead with her cool fingers. He flinched away, but she was satisfied. "If you are in need, call for us. But you seem to be healing nicely."

It was the best compliment had received all day, even with Erchirion's poor company. Amrothos was smiling to himself as she left. Perhaps confinement in the Healing Houses would not be _so_ terrible after all.

* * *

Éomer took the news of Lothíriel's abrupt and unexplained departure with no outwards signs of, well, anything. He did not realize how irritating this was for his sister, whose worry was quite visible (though Éomer chose determinedly not to see it), and when they departed for Rohan two days later he appeared entirely composed, though his emotions were a different matter entirely.

The feeling of complete and utter betrayal burned in him without ceasing. He could only see Lothíriel's refusal as treachery against every good thing in his world; against their friendship, against their love…for she _had_ loved him, though now his certainty of that wavered. Why would she not wish to marry him, if she still loved him? He simply could not fathom it.

The dreams he had built were now dust. Éomer had always been content to hope that one day she would agree to be his wife in Aldburg. He had never understood her to be a woman who sought advancement in the world, and while being a marshal's wife rather than a princess may be viewed as a regression to some, he had never thought Lothíriel to care much about that sort of thing. Never once had she given that impression, in all those years of corresponding.

And in the last weeks…the thought which had sustained him during those darkest hours, of grief for his uncle and the overwhelming responsibility of fulfilling the role of king, was that Lothíriel, his beautiful, wonderful princess, would be with him. To have his dearest friend and greatest comfort with him always, he could bear the losses of all his family; Théodred and Théoden to death, and Éowyn to Faramir in Gondor.

Now, Meduseld would be empty. As would his heart.

The anxiety of rebuilding Rohan from a state of disarray and destruction from a new and unfamiliar position had greatly distressed Éomer in those first days after his uncle died, but now he welcomed it wholeheartedly. It was a distraction, something else to think of than the wound from Lothíriel which felt far more physical than it ought to be, a throbbing ache in his chest which never eased. The vigor he put into the rebuilding might have alarmed Éowyn, but he was thankful that she at least had the sense not to advise him any differently.

The heat of summer came and passed, and another journey to Minas Tirith was taken and not enjoyed. He did not see Lothíriel in those days, without knowing if he truly wished to or not. Would it have been easier to bury his uncle with her by his side, with her generous love and care? Would the crown of the House of Eorl be less heavy upon his head if she was among the crowd? He did not know, and once Meduseld was free from its peculiar guests, there was only more time to bury himself in hard work.

Autumn eventually came with the dawn-till-dusk harvest season, and Éomer reveled in it, imagining himself thinking of Lothíriel less and the needs of his nation more. Usually that smug consideration brought the princess back to his mind, and so he tried to stop discerning whether he was thinking of her or not altogether.

But there were always reminders, and her father's regular letters were a certain one. An invitation to visit Dol Amroth was always included, but Éomer could not consider such a thing. Not now, and likely not ever, however highly he esteemed Imrahil and his family. When the first flurries of winter were howling outside Meduseld, he penned a plainly-worded response which he hoped would satisfy the prince for several months at least—

 _I thank you for your gracious offer, but I unfortunately must decline at this time. The rebuilding of Rohan goes well, but I cannot be spared, or so my councilors tell me. I humor them, for huffy councilors are perhaps a greater annoyance than any enemy I have faced._

There. Éomer signed off his letter to Imrahil with a flourish, relieved to have an excuse not to travel to Dol Amroth, and confident in his joking that Imrahil would not notice anything amiss in his temper.

Once the letter was neatly sealed, Éomer laid it on the desk in front of him atop a missive to Aragorn, ready to be given to a messenger and sent to Gondor. There was more blank parchment at his elbow, and his fingers twitched. After a moment his picked up a quill, nervously running it between his fingers as his carefully controlled thoughts jumbled. No. No matter the temptation, no matter the urge, no matter how _badly_ he missed _her_ …he would not give in. His mouth tasted bitter, and donning the calmness he had practiced so much of late, Éomer stood, grasping the letters and leaving to give them to the messenger before his control crumbled.

It was another mild winter, and feeling as restless as the season usually made him, Éomer sought any reason to leave Edoras, to distract himself with travel and duties. December took him to the Hornburg, back to Edoras for Yuletide, and when January brought merely a few inches of snow, he made for Aldburg.

Elfhelm had taken over the position of marshal, and very well, too, but the evening Éomer arrived Elfhelm presented him with a box of possessions which had been left behind.

"I could have sent it along earlier," Elfhelm said with a roguish grin. "But I thought I might hold these things of yours hostage, so that you would not forget to visit an old friend and share a pint of ale."

Éomer gave a laugh at this, deciding not to contradict him—the first item in the box to catch his eye was a darkened piece of parchment, the unbroken seal of Lothíriel pressed into it. He surmised it must be old, for otherwise it would have been sent to Edoras, and he did not want to read it. At least, he did not think he did.

The pint of ale was shared, with many remembrances and much laughter between the men. But it was a hollow comfort for Éomer, who, near midnight, was forced to return to his private chamber with that letter to haunt his thoughts.

He tossed and turned that night, deciding first to burn the letter without reading it, then deciding to at least find out when it was written before burning it, and finally thinking that reading its entirety would do no lasting harm. The harm was already done, and by the lady in person, and not through writing. He had little to lose and nothing to gain by reading the letter. But it was addressed to him, and did he not have the courtesy to give it an indifferent perusal before burning it?

Eventually it was the suppressed yearnings of his heart, which seemed no less despite his every effort in the past months, which raised him from his bed near dawn, to light a taper and break the seal of the letter with curiosity both morbid and heart-rending.

 _Dearest Éomer_ , it read,

 _I fear you will not receive this missive, for the disquiet and mistrust which has been rising everywhere; in Gondor, and between our nations. I hear often Rohan spoken of, with mutterings that your Riders will not support us here. I hold my tongue when I hear these things, for I do not trust myself not to lash out angrily, or to keep from betraying myself. If the people of Minas Tirith look upon Rohan with such dismissal, what would they think of me, with my heart in your keeping across our borders? Not that I particularly care what people think of me in the general way, but I feel it prudent to be wary. I feel that our bond could do a great deal of harm, were the power of it in the wrong hands. But between us, I assure you, it brings me nothing but comfort. I do not regret you, not one whit_ — _so do not misinterpret my writings in that manner!_

 _Every day I worry for you more; we have received news of your cousin's death and I ache for you. I curse these evil forces which are so intent on destroying every happiness and comfort in this dreary world! I hope that in your grief you are sustained, that your uncle will be well again soon, and I send my best wishes for your sister, whatever the source of her malady. And you_ — _I can see your face in my mind even now, declaiming that you are quite fine, thank you very much, and that you are simply grateful for the life you have; however it pains you at present. Éomer, you must not force yourself to be too strong, for that is when men become brittle, and are like to shatter at any pressure._

 _Attacks in Gondor from across the river increase daily. Many people have been fleeing their homes to safer havens in the mountains or in Minas Tirith itself. The city is overcrowded; there are bodies sleeping in the streets nearly every night now. It is terribly warm here, uncannily so_ — _it is so unusual for winter that I cannot but feel restless and uncertain._

 _My days have changed little. We wait for tidings, and are often disappointed. We help where we can, but it is little. I have taken to keeping Wilwarin's coat brushed and shined, though I daresay we shall do little riding in the coming weeks and months. But it keeps my mind busy, and reminds me of better days._

 _Ah! The messenger has arrived early, and taps his foot with impatience. I seal this letter with my love and hope and pleas for your protection_ —

 _Lothíriel_

Éomer's lips were curled into a frown, and he limply allowed the parchment to fold over on itself as he stared into the slumbering ashes of the fire. The letter brought no comfort, but neither did it deepen his aching regret. He was hollow, rigid, pained to the point of unfeeling. He cast the letter into the ashes, and after a moment new flames began to lick the edges.

He must assume that Lothíriel _had_ cared for him—but only as a youthful fancy. She was eight years younger than him! While _he_ had felt for her with the strength of a man prepared to give the rest of his life to one woman, _her_ feelings must merely be subject to fickle change. It was the only explanation he could consider, and it was the only one he could accept to both soothe his smothered affection and to satisfy his pride.

Then he rose and left the chamber, expressly intending to take a long, hard ride across the plains in search of forgetting.


	17. Some and Now None of You

_3019-3020 T.A., Dol Amroth_

Lothíriel fared no better than her counterpart, though she did not know it.

The fortnight of riding in the spring chill with her weakened spirit had brought on a terrible case of illness, which laid her in bed for many weeks. While the remainder of her family travelled to Minas Tirith in July to meet Éomer and for some of them to travel northward with King Théoden's bier, she remained in Dol Amroth, nursing both the damp which had settled in her lungs and her broken heart.

Her father returned from Edoras (saying thankfully little of it) at the end of the summer, by which time she was well enough to resume activity; walking or riding along the cliffs, though always needing a rest afterwards. Imrahil did bring to her the well wishes and concern of many people she knew—Faramir and Éowyn, the kind and jolly _perian_ , Elessar and his new bride, and Amrothos, still recovering in the Healing Houses.

"Your brother may return in the spring," her father informed her. "He is learning to use a false leg and growing stronger by the day."

Lothíriel pretended not to notice that Éomer's name was absent from her well-wishers. She smiled and kissed her father, adding her hopes to Amrothos's expedient recovery, and left from his presence for the solace of her private chambers. But her childhood abode was now comfortless.

She did not know what to think; still she did not know what to feel—the pain of her heart had been overwhelming her physicality for so long that sometimes she wondered if it had disappeared or if had simply become a part of her, the same way she did not notice her ears or the mole on her neck. But it was in this instance, when she could sense Éomer's contempt despite the leagues between them, that Lothíriel knew that the pain was still very present.

There was a hollow, gaping hole in her breast, and hastily she wiped away the tears on her cheeks before standing, brushing off her skirt and steeling herself. There was nothing for it; no cure, no forgiveness. She had made her choice, as much as she regretted it, and she would live with it.

Lothíriel tugged Éomer's ring from her finger. For a moment she allowed it to hover above a jewel case which she opened carelessly to receive it, but something in her cried out not to discard it so. For all the raw memories it invoked, it was precious to her. Hesitating only a moment, she chose from the case a slender, silver chain, and passed it through the ring. She hung it 'round her neck, tucking the ring beneath her bodice where it hung between her breasts. It was cold for a moment before warming on her flesh. She needn't see it, though it would always be there.

For all her determination to move forward, the winter passed very slowly and very unhappily for Lothíriel. Beyond her own pleasures, she filled her time with as much work as she could; taking on the duties of princess of Dol Amroth. She visited orphanages, oversaw charity projects, planned festivities and celebrations, immersed herself in the running of the palace and to fix the inevitable kinks of such a large household. For all her successes, her heart remained empty.

Nessiel assisted her with these responsibilities, as least initially—illness laid up the elder princess in her bed sometime around midwinter, and when she did not appear again from several weeks, Lothíriel divined the cause, and was rewarded with knowing she was correct sometime in February.

Then, of course, there was a celebration to be planned to announce to the court the prospective birth of a child of the prince's family, and preparations would have to be made for its arrival in the autumn. Lothíriel took all of this on herself, assuring Nessiel that it was no issue, for Nessiel's priority was to be resting and eating well, not worrying about arranging parties or of clothing for the baby.

"Really, Lothíriel!" Nessiel protested, when Lothíriel sat her down early one spring morning to plan what would need to be made—shifts and socks, blankets and little caps. "I still have Alphros's things, and they are in quite good condition—and I can sew more socks if they are needed! You needn't fuss!"

"I am not fussing," Lothíriel said stoutly, already deciding to make all the socks herself. "I am taking care of you."

"I am a grown woman!" Nessiel laughed. " _Really_!" There was only the slightest swell in her frock, and now that the first weeks of illness were passing, Nessiel was looking quite healthy and happy. But Lothíriel was determined, and she would have her way.

All these things kept her busy—busy enough to satisfy her, at least, and some weeks later they were all of them surprised to see on the road Amrothos's standard.

"But Amrothos cannot ride," said Erchirion, unwilling to be drawn from his luncheon though the remainder of his family had hastened to the east-facing window to see the road. "When I was in Minas Tirith a fortnight past he said nothing of it, nor of his plans to come—"

Erchirion was duly ignored. Lothíriel was first to rush from the dining chamber, forgetting in her excitement that she still held her fork. When she arrived at the courtyard, she laughed aloud to see that indeed it _was_ Amrothos, and he _was_ astride a horse, and he was grinning around in pure smugness.

"Nothing much has changed around here," he said loudly. "Hullo, little sister!"

"Get down from there at once! Did the healers give you leave, or did you steal away in the night? Oh, Amrothos, you look so well!"

And so he did. His smile was as roguish as ever as she took his hand, pressing a kiss to it. His color was all returned, and there was a definite twinkle in his eyes as he winked.

"I did get permission to leave, if you can believe it! But I also stole a healer away with me—"

Lothíriel blinked at this, and as she watched a small pony pulled up alongside Amrothos, a familiar-looking young woman dismounting with a flush in her face.

"I will help you," the woman said, taking the reins from him. "Really, you rode far too quickly that last mile! I need to ensure that you did not damage your leg any more—"

"Lothíriel, this is Careth," Amrothos said pleasantly. "Careth, cease fussing about and meet my sister."

"I know your sister," Careth said, and her green eyes darted shyly to Lothíriel, who was still staring in complete bewilderment. Her brother had stolen a _healer?_ So nonchalantly? That was mighty strange, even for the irrepressible Amrothos.

"Oh! I do recognize you," Lothíriel managed at last. "And I do promise that if my brother has mistreated you, or if you wish to return to Minas Tirith, my father will—"

Amrothos interrupted with a loud laugh, allowing Careth to take his hand as he swung his stump of a leg over the saddle with a grunt. "She does not wish to return," he said. "At least, not yet. After we are wed, perhaps. What do you think, my love?"

Careth's cheeks were red, and Amrothos slid expertly from the saddle to the ground, only a bare flash of pain in his features as his good leg took all his weight. He wrapped an arm around Careth's waist and pulled her close to plant a kiss on her lips.

Lothíriel nearly fainted.

"Where is Father? We wish to tell him first. Well—second." Amrothos's eyes were alight with mischief and happiness, and even Careth was hiding a smile, though she looked distinctly less comfortable than he was in the mighty courtyard of the palace of the princes of Dol Amroth.

"Er, he is—ah…"

Fortunately the remainder of her family arrived then, looking surprised and pleased at Amrothos's appearance, though there were definite expressions of bewilderment as they saw him wrapped affectionately around the little healer.

Lothíriel's heart had sunk down to her toes. On numb legs, she whispered something about having rooms arranged for them and turned to run back into the palace.

Tears were blinding her. She was rushing around without realizing where she was going, but her unfailing memory took her to her chambers, and after locking the door behind her, Lothíriel collapsed onto her bed and gave into shaking sobs.

Amrothos! To _marry!_

She was not angry at him; not bitter, nor unhappy. Nor could she detest his choice in bride, for Lothíriel knew Careth from those long days in the Healing Houses, and knew the woman was kind and capable. No, her anger was for herself.

How stupid she had been! Thinking that love had no place after a war—apparently that was where it belonged the most! Denying Éomer because she thought—nobly, stupidly—that evil had taken too many lives, torn too many families apart for happiness to ever shine again.

There had been considerable losses in the war—'twas true, and she had lost much. But…Amrothos had gained from it. Somehow, he had lost a leg but gained a true-hearted, devoted woman. Lothíriel _could_ have had Éomer after all was done; she could have—she could have—despite everything, despite her pain and misery, he still had wished to marry her. She could have had him…they could have healed together.

In that moment, Lothíriel knew that she was the most foolish woman alive.

* * *

 _1 November 3020 T.A., Edoras_

"—And our last order on the agenda is to discuss the upcoming marriage of Éomer King—"

Éomer sat up straight, alarmed out of his stupor. Eyes turned to him at once, and the speaker, an old councilor of his uncle's, faltered under his king's fierce gaze.

"My _what_?" he demanded.

The councilor swallowed, his ears turning red. "Your—your _marriage._ Sire." The word _marriage_ was spoken in a whisper, and for the humor of the man's obvious nervousness Éomer might have laughed.

"My marriage," he repeated slowly. "I did not know I was to be congratulated. Do send me an invitation, Halsig, if you will."

There were stilted chuckles across the council chamber at this, and Halsig even managed a wan smile. Then he steeled himself, and under Éomer's inquiring gaze, said, "Sire, forgive my impertinence—"

"I have already forgotten it."

"—but you really _must_ wed. The Line of Eorl—the line of our kings—has suffered too much in the last years, and we would see it replenished for the sake of Rohan. A queen would benefit our nation greatly, be she as admirable as your late aunt, and the security of the progeny of your loi—er, blood would—"

Éomer gave up listening, his stomach twisting with rebellion. There was no stopping Halsig when he got into a topic he felt passionately about, and this was clearly one of them. He tried not to think of the phrase _'progeny of your blood'_ , for he surmised that Halsig had nearly said _'progeny of your loins,'_ and he did not find that the least bit humorous in his mood of late.

"—And I have drawn up a list of suitable women, should you wish to consult it. The choice is, of course, entirely yours; we would not presume to choose your bride ourselves."

Éomer saw Erkenbrand exchange an amused glance with Elfhelm, but any laughter was stifled. He sent the pair of them a mild glare as Halsig delicately placed a sheaf of parchment in front of him. Éomer picked it up, hating it already.

Many of the names he recognized, some he did not. He smiled grimly to himself, and then glanced up. "Did you compile this list yourself, Halsig?" he asked innocently. "And did Erkenbrand _ask_ you to put his daughter upon it? Or did you assume that he would be pleased to give her willingly to _me_ , whom he has always called a half-witted lout?"

Erkenbrand's smile faded at once. "Halsig!" he boomed, his massive fist on the oaken table. "You scheming— _without my permission_ — _my Frithild is not yours to decide what to do with_ —"

The council chamber erupted in protests, both in offense against and in defense of the poor Halsig, who was looking pale as he sat down weakly in his chair, unheeding to the shouts around him. Éomer's smile turned smug, and no one heard the screech as his chair legs scraping against the floor to stand. He tucked his hands in his pockets, and whistling to himself, strode out of the chamber unnoticed, thinking that a ride would just the antidote for his near-heart attack of being bullied into marrying.

Such matters only brought forth his aching memories of Lothíriel, and his smile turned brittle. Éowyn's wedding was fast approaching, and he would see her there, whether he wished to or not. And did he wish to? Well—

 _A ride_ , he told himself sternly. _Think of a ride!_

* * *

 _30 November 3020 T.A., Dol Amroth_

Sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows, and the baby squirmed as the brightness shifted onto her face. Lothíriel bounced her niece gently, turning her away from the window, cooing as Nerriel yawned before settling back into her blankets, eyes closed and letting out sleepy, shallow breaths.

Lothíriel dipped her head, placing a bare brush of a kiss against the babe's rosy cheek. Nerriel smelled of sweet milk and soft soap—a perfect scent if there ever was one. She wished she could bottle it up and take it with her to Ithilien!

"It is time, daughter."

Lothíriel's heart wrenched, but she smiled at her father as she glanced at the door. "I was only saying goodbye," she said.

"I know." His eyes were soft, affectionate. As she joined him by the door, he bent down to kiss Nerriel as well, his large hand covering her dark curls. "She is a sweet baby," Imrahil said, a catch in his voice. "Elphir is very fortunate."

"Not least because he is avoiding a long and tiresome journey to Ithilien," Lothíriel teased.

"Too right! You must be sure to remind him."

They walked slowly together towards the courtyard, where already the horses were saddled and waiting. Through the open corridors Lothíriel could see Elphir farewelling their brothers, and Nessiel embracing Careth. She had delayed too long with the baby, she surmised.

Presently Nerriel was given to her mother, not once opening her eyes at the commotion of horses and knights. Lothíriel tightened her cloak at her neck and ran her hands over the belts and ties of Wilwarin's saddle to see that all was properly secured. She was turned away from the white marble walls of her home, for fear of premature homesickness wrenching her already fragile heart.

"Good bye, sister! Safe travels!"

She was enveloped in Elphir's strong arms, and she laughed and returned his embrace.

"Farewell, Elphir!" Lothíriel said. "Think of us sleeping out of doors while you are tucked in your warm bed, tonight."

"I will!" he laughed, tugging on one of her braids on instinct, and she winced.

There was no more cause for delay, and they mounted their steeds—Amrothos with some trouble, but gallantly persevering all the same under the watchful eye of Careth. Lothíriel steered Wilwarin towards the north gate, where many miles distant Ithilien stood amongst its mountains and tall trees. She could not help the anxiety twisting her stomach then; she was trying with all her might not to think of Éomer being there—which of course he would be, as it was his sister's wedding.

It would be sixteen days of riding, and sixteen days of considering just how she was going to avoid seeing him for the entire week of wedding festivities.


	18. You'll Never See My Bleeding Heart

_22 December 3020 T.A., Ithilien_

 _—Would it also be too much of me to hope, that when you look at this ring you may think of me fondly? More than fondly, perhaps? Were this war not worsening, I might speak more freely, but please know, Lothíriel, that I think only of you—_

Lothíriel fiddled with the ring which hung on a chain 'round her neck, her heart aching as the cold metal band chilled her fingers. She had read that letter from Éomer so many times that it was seared into her memory, and even now, nearly two years since she had received it, she could recall his words perfectly. How joyous that day had been! And how it pained her to remember it now.

The midwinter sun shone weakly into her guest chamber, obscured by snow-covered branches of the trees outside. Ithilien was beautiful and much improved by Faramir's hard work, but Lothíriel could find no joy in it. Not when she knew she would see Éomer that night. No matter how she had tried the last days, the last months—Lothíriel could not forget him; not the love she had for him, nor the expression upon his face when she had uttered that horrible word, _"No."_

A sudden knock at the door made her jump. Her heart in her throat— _could it be Éomer? Had he come to see her?_ —and she called in a wavering voice,

"Enter!"

But it was merely Amrothos's moppy head and winning smile which poked through the door, and she sighed.

"Come in, quickly," she said, and dropped the ring back between the cleft of her breasts, where it was hidden beneath her bodice. "What have you come to tell me?"

"Well, that is rather to the point!" Amrothos shut the door behind him, his smile never fading as he limped towards her, his false leg clunking loudly, to where she sat by the window. "Can I not visit my favorite sister without a true purpose?"

"Anyone else could—but you? Likely not!" This teasing was usual, and while Lothíriel could smile for her brother, her thoughts did not stray far from her unhappy musings.

Amrothos sat beside her, lounging with apparent comfort in the window seat despite the painful grimace that crossed his face as his leg stuck out awkwardly. Lothíriel stifled a real giggle, shaking her head. "Father did send me," he admitted, not surprising her at all. "Thought I might have come myself. He is worried about you—you have hardly left your chamber since we arrived!"

"It is cold," Lothíriel hedged. "I prefer to be indoors."

"There are still many activities in the hall and such, and many people to greet! I thought you might at least wish to see Éomer. Though to be fair, he is as elusive as you." He frowned thoughtfully at this.

Amrothos did not, of course, know of the breach between her and Éomer. She had told no one; allowing her family to persist in believing that she and the new King of Rohan were on friendly terms. Evidently the abrupt ceasing of letters had not been noticed amongst the increased activity of the recent months.

"I have not been feeling myself," Lothíriel tried again. "I may be catching ill."

Immediately Amrothos tilted away from her. "Surely not! Well—you look pale, I suppose. Ah, I will tell Father that I spoke to you. You _will_ attend the wedding tonight? I have a vested interest, you know!"

She could not help smiling; for all his normally cheerful demeanor, somehow her brother produced so much more joy with his betrothal to Careth fast approaching. "Indeed. Ill or not, I shall be there."

"Excellent. I will come for you at sunset." He had stood, sidling away from her as if afraid of catching her illness. Lothíriel smiled wanly at this; her ailment was hardly catching.

"Goodbye, Amrothos."

The door was shut.

* * *

Éomer's heart was not quite in the festivities that night. Happy as he was for his sister, the raw resentment which burned in his chest was throbbing painfully as he tried to not see Lothíriel in the swarming mass of guests. Was she happy? Could he bear to see her smiling at anyone but himself? Did she love another already? If her heart was as inconsistent as he had decided, it was more than likely…

Éowyn, the only person in the world that knew the cause of his disquiet, cast him many sympathetic glances, though most of her attention was upon her new husband and their guests. With a hollow pit in his stomach, Éomer bowed shortly to the lord he had been conversing absently with and retreated.

He paused at a table of refreshments, taking a glass of wine and wishing to be anywhere else, before he turned and collided with a feminine body which he was sure had appeared out of nowhere. He barely kept his wine from spilling, but the woman was not so lucky; the reticule which she had been rummaging through fell to the floor, its contents spilling everywhere. One glass phial shattered with a _crash_ , and liquid splashed onto his trousers.

"Oh—oh, I am sorry, my lord!" The woman had fallen to her knees, hastily picking up the oddments. Her voice was familiar, and after a moment it broke through his haze of incomprehension.

Lothíriel.

Éomer crouched down at well, determinedly saying nothing but assisting her all the same, picking up an embroidered handkerchief and a spare hair ribbon. Did she not recognize him? Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks flushed as she took her belongings from his hand with trembling fingers. She hurried to wipe the spill with the handkerchief, and he smelled jasmine.

But he was distracted, for his gaze travelled forward. From the silver-embroidered bodice of her frock fell a ring, swinging tantalizingly in front of his confused eyes as Lothíriel at last glanced up at him.

"Oh! Éo—" His name was strangled in her throat, and the flush in her cheeks deepened into scarlet. Despite the flash of trepidation in her face, she was as beautiful as ever with her dark curls hanging 'round her face. Éomer felt an answering surge of desire in the pit of his stomach for this woman, but firmly he quashed it. She had denied him. She clearly did not love him, and there was no use pretending otherwise. With great control, he picked up her limp hand and lifted her to her feet.

"Good evening, madam." He bowed shortly and turned on his heel to leave.

"Wait! Éo—my lord."

Éomer paused, turning back slightly to give the princess a level stare.

"I—I am sorry. I should have returned it—" She was fumbling, pulling the ring from its fine chain 'round her lovely throat.

"No," he said hoarsely. "Keep it. 'Twas a gift, my lady."

But she was shaking her head. "It would not be right, my lord, not since—"

"Discard it however you wish, then."

"Oh, I could not! Not something so precious to _me_."

Éomer wondered if he was imaging the agony in her clear grey eyes. He had always thought he understood Lothíriel extremely well, even those things she did not say outright—but now he doubted himself. To hide his own tremulous feelings, he clasped his hands together behind his back, steeling himself.

"It needn't be precious if you do not wish it to be," he said indifferently. The expression in her eyes darkened to the purest misery he had ever seen in his life, and Éomer blinked in astonishment at it. _That_ he had not expected, and he grew utterly confused.

He had decided upon her fickleness of character, her inconstancy of feeling, as the only explanation of her refusal. She _should_ be entirely indifferent to him now, according to his reasoning. But if this was so...why were there tears now flooding her eyes?

Éomer picked up her limp hand, noting the quiver in it as she stared up at him in bewildered...hope? Was that hope he saw? Or was it merely his own, reflected in those beautiful eyes which he still dreamed of?

"'Tis only a ring," he said, keeping his voice level. "Lothíriel, you need not remember our correspondence any more than you wish."

She blinked, and he was surprised at the flash of anger in her features. "I will remember it whether I wish or not!" Lothíriel said sharply, withdrawing her hand from his. "Even when I _beg_ to forget so that I might sleep at night instead of weep. Good evening, my lord." And she turned and swept away, her chin high in the air and her skirt sweeping elegantly behind her.

He had expected only a mite of remorse, for he knew his princess had a good heart, but he had also expected her to pretend as if nothing had happened between them. Now he did not know what to think, and he turned to walk the opposite direction, recalling almost against his will the precious letter which still resided in his desk in Meduseld, tied with a hair ribbon he had filched from her all those years ago…

 _What joy your letter has brought me! I cannot pretend subtleties when my heart overflows. Éomer, I love you! If I have mistaken your suggestions then I am likely the greatest fool in the world, but I cannot care..._

The scent of jasmine stayed with him.

* * *

Lothíriel wrung her hands together, oblivious to the scene she was undoubtedly creating by her frantic pacing in their corner of the feasting hall. Careth watched this in part amusement, part sympathy—and when the princess failed to speak, her brows drawn together in worry, the healer gently said,

"Whatever is it, Lothíriel? What is troubling you?"

Lothíriel stopped her pacing, glancing around, as if surprised to find herself in a crowded hall. "Oh—nothing, nothing, I assure you. Everything is well. Quite well. I am well." And she took a deep, steadying breath, which was not steady at all.

Careth might have been new to the Prince of Dol Amroth's family, but she knew his daughter well enough to guess that everything was _not_ well. She was not familiar with many things that could discompose the ever-kind Lothíriel, but from the scene she had caught sight of just minutes before, she might hazard a guess. Careth put a hand on the princess's arm, in an attempt to both calm her and draw her attention. 

"I saw you speaking to the King of Rohan," she said. "He is very frightening, no?"

Lothíriel blinked. "Éomer? Frightening? No, I would not say so."

Careth frowned slightly. "No? In the Healing Houses, we were _all_ frightened of him. He is _so_ enormously tall and has such a scowl sometimes—"

"Very rarely, I would say," Lothíriel contradicted. Her eyes flitted away, confusing Careth all the more. Though she had only caught a glimpse of the princess speaking to the king, she had not the impression that it was a _comfortable_ meeting. Perhaps what she had seen as fright in Lothíriel was something else. But she could not guess what. This show of nerves was so unlike Lothíriel that Careth could not help her concern growing.

The familiar touch of Amrothos drew her eyes away from his sister, and Careth smiled as he put his hands on her shoulders from behind, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek before taking her arm.

"Are you nervous yet?" he asked, with that wonderful grin of his.

"Not at all," Careth said primly, for she knew the best manner in which to accept his teasing was to pretend he was not teasing at all. But then she remembered Lothíriel, and with a meaningful look in her eyes as Amrothos continued to gaze at her, she nodded her head slightly towards his sister.

Amrothos blinked. He glanced at Lothíriel, then back to Careth, his expression questioning. However well they understood each other normally, it was difficult to discuss someone standing next to them, no matter how vacant Lothíriel appeared. Careth pursed her lips, inclining her head further in the princess's direction. Amrothos looked again, frowning—then he turned back to Careth with a shrug.

Oh! He was useless!

But her thoughts were ungracious, for a moment later the prince asked, quite gently for him, "Lothíriel, are you well?"

Lothíriel jumped at this, turning and appearing quite surprised to see him standing with them. "Of course!" she said. "Why would I not be?" There was a hint of accusation in her tone. Perhaps she was growing weary of inquiries—Careth certainly would be, and almost she regretted drawing Amrothos's attention to her.

"I saw Éomer earlier," Amrothos said next, and his eyes were kind. "Can I fetch him for you, Loth? I am sure he would—"

" _No, thank you very much_!" Lothíriel hissed, her eyes flashing at her brother. Careth was startled at this, and more so by the swift sweep of skirt as the princess turned on her heel, disappearing with haste into the crowd. Silence followed her departure, and after a moment Amrothos said,

"Do you know, I think she is not quite well."

"Very astute," Careth said dryly. "Do you think we should—"

"No. She will only regret more interference now, I think. And anyways, I was just speaking to my father, it is nearly time for us."

Heat suffused Careth's cheeks; she had been trying not to think of their fast-approaching and very public betrothal. Her fingers clenched on Amrothos's arm, and he laughed. "Not nervous, eh?" he asked, lifting her chin to gaze better into her eyes. "Do not worry, Careth—for I will support you. Providing you assist me in mounting the steps, that is—"

And with a burst of laughter, the young healer allowed her concern for her lover's sister to dwindle.


	19. You're the Echoes of My Everything

_December 3020 T.A., Ithilien_

Everywhere Éomer seemed to go during the following days, Lothíriel was there, too.

He had noticed, though he pretended otherwise, that preceding the wedding she had stayed mostly to her rooms, for he had not caught even a glimpse of her. But now, clearly at the urgings of her family, she appeared at meals and at the various activities Faramir provided for his guests.

When he had the opportunity to study her before she saw _him_ , she was visibly reluctant to be wherever she was, usually flanked by her brothers. Her eyes flitted around absently, she spoke amongst her family rarely, and she was often wringing her hands or fiddling with the ends of her belt. Such nerves made _him_ anxious.

Éomer wondered, then, if he was the cause of her discomfort—she never appeared to have any issues speaking to anyone else—nay, she was positively polite and engaging as far as he could tell. Lothíriel was not awkward in the general sense, though he could not describe her behavior of their previous encounter as anything but.

His theory was proven correct, and more than once. When she saw him, usually covertly studying her, Lothíriel immediately dropped her gaze, shifting to face away from him with red cheeks. One afternoon in the western corridors, Éomer was walking aimlessly along when he saw at a distant corner, the figure of the princess turning towards him. Her steps slowed as she stared at him, and a moment later she turned on her heel to disappear back behind the corner in haste.

It was all very odd.

Then there was, of course, the encounter in the stables—Éomer intended early one morning to go on a solitary ride through the famous woods of Ithilien, but when he had arrived at the stables, he heard Lothíriel's familiar voice in a murmur through the door, and it stopped him in his tracks. He peeked through the door, then, and saw her, dressed for riding with a fur cloak clasped at her throat, and petting Firefoot's nose with a smile on her face. He could not quite hear exactly what she was saying, but Firefoot was clearly happy.

Éomer could not help but stare for several moments, his thoughts a turmoil of confusion and affection and resentment, that he was forced to jump out of the way with hardly any warning as Lothíriel led her saddled mare through the doors. He was fortunate her attention was diverted elsewhere, and did not turn to investigate the crunching of snow as he quickly hid behind the corner of the stables. She checked the saddle expertly, swung herself upwards with amazing elegance, and without audible command urged Wilwarin into a gallop, south to merge with a well-worn track into the forest.

Well, Béma. _He_ had wanted to take that path. Still he could not quite bring himself to happen upon her in a circumstance where they might converse, at least purposefully, and so Éomer retreated back to Faramir's house—he knew Firefoot was well, anyway.

That afternoon he decided he must have a conversation with someone before he was driven completely mad by himself, and he sought Éowyn out at once. But he was to be disappointed, for when he knocked on the door to her chambers, it was Faramir who answered.

"Éowyn is with Lothíriel," the steward said mildly, from behind his desk where he had been studying several piles of parchment. "They are making final arrangements for your farewell feast tomorrow night, I believe." There was a keen light in Faramir's eyes as he met Éomer's, and Éomer wondered just how much Faramir knew. Awkwardly he cleared his throat and said he would find his sister later.

Blast the woman! Was she intent on placing herself in his every path, to distract him from every possible direction? At least he could take a ride in peace _now_.

Likely it was for the best that Éomer was to leave Ithilien in two days' time. He was growing restless with so little to occupy him and to keep his mind from dwelling on the princess. For if he scrutinized her behavior, the more likely it was that he would find reason enough to try to understand her better…

But this resolution was tossed completely to the wind, and by his sister no less—for her mechanisms the night of his departure feast.

There was dancing following the sumptuous feast, and Éomer was happy to lead out his sister for the first of them. But when she gestured for Faramir to take a place beside them, and saw that Lothíriel was upon her cousin's arm, Éomer was less pleased.

"If you do not know the steps, follow Faramir," was Éowyn's helpful suggestion as she took her place in the line, and he was left to himself.

It was a style of Gondorian dance of which he knew very little, but could remember snatches of from his most recent visit to Minas Tirith. His attention was drawn instead to Lothíriel, who stood beside Éowyn. The princess was looking startled to find herself so near to _him_ , though after a moment she tore her eyes away from him. Her gaze was kept firmly upon Faramir, but Éomer did not miss the rigid set of her shoulders, which looked about how his felt.

The music began, and Éomer tried to focus on the steps. It was not complicated, and he hoped no one was scrutinizing him _too_ much—he glanced often at Faramir, who was smiling and conversing with Lothíriel. Then without warning the steps drew all four of them to a center point at the same moment, and Faramir and Éowyn reached out to place their hands together, turning in a circle. Éomer barely kept up to keep Faramir from bumping into him; he instinctively reached out his hand—Lothíriel's was already there, and their palms met—

His heart was in his throat, lodged there as a jolt climbed up his arm. Éomer kept his eyes forward, determined not to look at her. Then the steps turned, and he was forced to turn about, still not looking at Lothíriel as their opposite hands met with the same physical assault upon his senses. Béma! This was _torture_. Had Éowyn done this a-purpose?

But his sister was merely smiling benignly as they reverted to their original positions. Éomer gazed shrewdly at her, trying to divine another purpose—but none was visible. There were, unfortunately, two more passes with the four of them, and it was all he could do to appear perfectly composed when the turmoil in his chest was anything but. And when the dance was over, Éomer took the first chance he had to leave the hall without being rude, tugging at the ties on the front of his tunic as he escaped, for he could barely breathe—

He strode through the dim corridors, away from curious eyes and the suffocating nearness of the princess… _his_ princess, he still thought of her when he lost hold of himself.

Éomer was going nowhere in particular, only away, when he was stopped by a sound of sniffling drawing near. His steps paused, and he saw a puddle of skirt on the ground, peeking from around a corner. A blue skirt. A familiar blue skirt—

Creeping forward, it took only another moment's observation to recognize Lothíriel, likely escaped from the hall through a different door than himself. She was sitting upon the floor, her dark head resting against the stone wall and facing away from him. She sniffled again, choking back a sob as her shoulders shook, her head bowing.

It took every mite of Éomer's control not to sink beside her then, to take her into his arms and to comfort her in any way he could. This reaction startled him, and he backed away quickly before he betrayed himself. His heart was pounding. Béma! He had hoped to be indifferent towards her…but seeing her so miserable, so _defeated_ , and wishing to care for her proved that he was not entirely apathetic, despite trying to be so. He wanted her still. No matter that she had refused to marry him…he still loved her.

The slight workings of reason in his mind suggested that if she was so unhappy, it was possible that _she_ was not indifferent to him and their breach. But the bitterness in his chest he had built up for so long revolted against this—and Éomer only grew more confused.

Well, perhaps he should give it more thought. _Away_ from her.

* * *

 _1 January 3021 T.A., Edoras_

Éomer twirled the quill in his fingers, the familiar itch stronger than ever. The habit of writing to Lothíriel for all those years had not died lightly; indeed, the urge often battered at him. Until today, he had never given in. But in his continued bewilderment of the princess; her motivations, and her heart—he found that _his_ heart was softening. He sat forward in his chair, unheeding of the snowstorm outside rattling the glass panes of the windows, and dipped the quill in ink.

 _Lothíriel,_

He stopped. What in Arda was in doing? Being a fool, that was what he was doing! He scowled at himself. But since he had started, there was no halting altogether—

 _I can truthfully say now, that I hope you are well. I confess to have hoped every distress and unhappiness upon you several months ago, but it was uncharitable and unchivalrous of me. And now that I have witnessed with my own eyes your misery, that desire slinks away in shame. I have always preferred your smiles to your frowns, and now it seems that I am the cause of your grief, though I cannot fathom precisely why._

 _Whatever my perceptions are, I must judge that you are not as unfeeling as part of me has hoped. How else can I reason away your behavior?_

 _Now I must declare that I have no intention of your ever reading this letter, and so I can be plain-spoken as I like. Lothíriel, you have made me angry. Angrier than perhaps I have ever been before. It is such an incongruous feeling, to have a woman I once loved more than life itself to cause me such misery. But beneath that anger, I wonder if my love for you still smolders… Some nights I dream of you, for better or worse. Sometimes I wake cursing your name, wishing we had never met_ — _and still other nights, I wake and wish you were beside me. Oh, if you were beside me! What would I do? Would I make love to you, forgetting all trespasses? Would it resole matters between us, or worsen them? Béma, as if knowing you has not been a test of my self-mastery already…_

 _But Lothíriel, do not misunderstand me. I never simply wanted you for the sake of sharing my bed. I have always wanted you in every facet of my life_ — _every day, every moment, every circumstance. I want you beside me in council meetings, to doodle on the backs of my decrees, to offer your ever-insightful thoughts to my sometimes-frustrating councilors, to be beside me with your alluring jasmine perfume. I want your compassion to rule Edoras, for I have learned I have little head for people. Soldiers and war, certainly, but not individuals. That is your strength, my love. Would you have been content, my wonderful Lothíriel, to be a marshal's wife? To bear the children of a mere military commander? I think of that sometimes_ — _our stolen life, which was torn from us._

 _I wonder if you saw my weakness and that turned you against me. But I cannot believe it! I think too highly of your heart. Why, why, why did you refuse to marry me? I cannot understand, and my mind grasps at faltering reasons_ — _am I too ugly? Too eager? Too tall? Am I an unfit king? Did I not treat you as kindly, as singularly, as superior as a devoted lover ought? Still I wonder, every day. What could I have done differently? Is there anything I can change now, to earn your love again? For though we are estranged, I would do anything in my power to have you again._

There was a knock at his door, and startled, Éomer fumbled the quill, a splotch of ink distorting his words. Keeping his voice level, he called, "Come in!"

The door creaked, and a servant entered, bowing low. "A messenger has come from Gondor, my lord." And he held out a thick stack of letters. There were likely five or six, and Éomer grimaced inwardly at the amount of replies he would have to make. He gestured for the man to bring letters the forward, and took them quickly.

"Thank you," Éomer said gruffly, and the servant left. He rifled through the letters absently, unsurprised by any of them. Aragorn, Éowyn, Faramir, a lord he barely remembered, Imrahil—

With his thoughts still lingering on Lothíriel, and the bare flicker of flaming hope that perhaps _she_ had written to him (she had not), Éomer broke the seal of Imrahil's letter first.

 _Éomer,_

 _I hope you have returned to Rohan in good health. Our road to Dol Amroth was safe, and our winter passes smoothly. I write to invite you to Amrothos's wedding, to take place in Dol Amroth at the end of February. I fear that the weather will hold out against you, but I would feel remiss not to include you in an invitation._

 _If February is not an option, we would still very much like to see you_ — _in the spring, perhaps? In my experience, the roads are safe to take at the onset of April. I assure you that our fair city is full of life and color even so early in the year, and such a long journey would be duly rewarded._

 _In the meantime, please review the merchandising contracts I have included, and return them when you can_ — _by messenger, or your own hand._

 _All my best wishes,_

 _Imrahil of Dol Amroth_

Yet another invitation! Éomer's lips twisted in a grimacing smile. Was he upset by it, or glad by it? Years ago he would have leapt at such an opportunity, no matter how blocked the mountain passes were by snow. But he could not anticipate his princess awaiting him with her open heart and welcoming arms _now_.

Could he?

He hesitated.

But the desire to see Lothíriel again, despite their breach, was the winning consideration. He wanted to understand her, and he surmised that would be best served by visiting Dol Amroth. Quickly Éomer chose a blank piece of parchment, and penned an acceptance of Imrahil's spring invitation. Surprisingly, he did not grow _more_ nervous, but hope and confidence, which he quickly tempered, made his heart feel light for the first time in many months.

* * *

 _5th March 3021 T.A., Dol Amroth_

Lothíriel was feeling an overwhelming sense of oddness as she stared into the earnest eyes of Lord Dalgorn. Part of her pointed out the irony of this situation occurring once more—but then again, the circumstances with Éomer had been _entirely_ different.

"I would be honored to have you as my wife," Lord Dalgorn said in his affected tones, his clammy hands holding hers.

"No," she said.

He blinked.

"No," Lothíriel said again. "I apologize if I have given you a mistaken notion of my affections. Good bye."

And she stood, straightening her skirt as she walked in the opposite direction. The solace of the gardens was almost eerie after such an encounter. Lothíriel had no prickling of conscience for leaving Lord Dalgorn behind; he could escort himself out of her father's house quite well, and she guessed, knowing of his pride, that he would do so quickly.

She turned her steps southward, and they faltered. There was a single bench facing the outlook to the sea, under the shade of the gardener's favorite lemon trees, and she sunk upon it as her eyes burned with tears.

Lothíriel had only meant to be _kind_ to Lord Dalgorn! After all, his wife had died in childbirth not a year ago. He was perfectly amiable, and so she even sought his company when she could not quite tolerate the inanities of others of the court. That her apparent preference had given rise to such expectations…she was stupid, stupid, _stupid_!

"Princess?"

She blinked away her tears hurriedly, forcing a smile as she recognized the apothecary hovering near her, wringing his dirty hands together as he gazed at her through his spectacles with concern.

"Good afternoon, Malbeth," Lothíriel said, shifting so that could sit beside her, which he did.

"Did you see the allheal blooming, princess?" Malbeth said, pulling from the pouch at his waist a handful of crumbled blossoms. "So early in the spring, too! I wonder if we shouldn't have two harvests this year!"

Lothíriel bit back a smile; the red blooms in his hand were not allheal, but poppy. Malbeth's eyesight was terrible, and he so absent-minded that he hardly noticed. "That is poppy, Malbeth," she said gently. "But it is looking very fine; I am sure we shall have excellent stores of poppy this year."

"Oh! Oh dear, old me. I am sorry!" Hastily he stuffed the flowers away, his ears bright red. Lothíriel did smile then, patting his wrinkled, dirty hand affectionately.

"But I am glad you told me, anyway."

"I saw Lord Dalgorn leaving here not a few minutes ago," Malbeth said. "Nearly trampled the rosemary. A more careless man there never was!"

Lothíriel's smile faded.

"But there will still be enough for our guests...where are they coming from again? And it is not next week, I think…I cannot quite remember what the steward told me—"

"They are coming from Rohan," she said, trying to ignore the twisting in her stomach at this. "And they are to arrive the second week of April. I am sure the rosemary will be fully replenished by then."

"Ah, good. Good, good." And Malbeth stood, clumsily trapping his own hands in his long black robes. "Ah—I should check the poultice I am reducing. Have a good afternoon, princess!"

"Good bye, Malbeth."

Lothíriel was left alone with the sea as the old man departed in shuffling steps, but it was little consolation. The nerves whenever she remembered that Éomer— _Éomer!_ —was to visit her home very soon were unpleasant at best. Her hands were prickling with sweat at the mere thought, and she wrung them in her skirt. She knew it was quite right for Éomer to visit, but somehow she wished she could be anywhere else but in Dol Amroth when he arrived. She did not wish to experience his coldness again. Oh, the times she had wept to remember the bitterness in his face!

Tears came again now; her heart was all in turmoil from Lord Dalgorn and Éomer and everything else. The happiness tinged with such sorrow at Amrothos's wedding still wrung her heart, and for the first time in her life, Lothíriel could not say, for the life of her, what she wanted.


	20. Tell Me How to Feel About You Now

_1st April 3021 T.A., Dol Amroth_

Éomer alighted from his stallion in the massive courtyard, taking in the sight of the huge marble palace which now surrounded him. Everything was blue and white—the white of the stone, the blue of the banners bearing the Swan-ship of Dol Amroth. And beyond that, the blue of the sea, and the blue of the sky. It was all stunning—more beautiful than he had wished. So, this was where Lothíriel had grown into herself. Curiously he glanced at the glass windows which dotted the palace walls, wondering if he would see her shadow.

"Éomer!" The familiar figure of Imrahil strode through the great oaken doors and down a tall flight of stairs into the courtyard. He was wearing his armor and looking weary; immediately the dread of fighting filled Éomer. But Imrahil's smile was broad as he drew near, clasping Éomer's arm in greeting.

"We were not expecting you for a week yet, my friend!" the prince said. "We are caught— _ah_ , with our trousers down, as soldiers would say. I was just reviewing the lists. Come in! There is room in the stables aplenty, and hay for the horses. _Come_!"

Éomer was happy to obey, passing the reins to a small stable boy before following Imrahil into the house. Sunlight shone through tall, open windows, and the salty sea breeze permeated the entrance hall. It was all very pleasant, lifting his spirits at once.

"Amrothos and Careth are still in Pelargir with my sister, and Erchirion is on patrol near Tolfalas," Imrahil explained, walking quickly. "And Elphir was assisting me in the lists. I do not know where—"

There was a sound of hurried footsteps, and from a branching corridor to their right Éomer saw with a wrench in his heart Lothíriel rushing towards them, her face red and her breathing labored.

"Ah," the prince said with satisfaction.

"I am sorry—" Lothíriel wheezed, entering the hall. "I only just heard— _ah_ , welcome, my lord king." And she made a clumsy curtsey. That her hands were caked with dirt did not escape Éomer, and he felt a smile threatening.

"Princess," he said, bowing low.

"I am afraid I must get out of this armor before I can be a proper host," Imrahil said. "Lothíriel, will you show Éomer around? I will only be a short time."

She blinked, clearly taken aback, but nodded quickly. "Of course, Father. I have already given the order to have rooms prepared."

"Very good! I take my leave." And with a smart nod Imrahil turned down the left corridor, walking briskly away. Silence followed his departure. Éomer glanced 'round the great hall to find something more interesting to look at than the woman in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her hurriedly smooth down her hair, scattering dirt. But he still thought her endearing, not disheveled. Without warning she blurted,

"We were not expecting you—"

"I know," Éomer interrupted, finally allowing his eyes to rest on her. "I am not offended." Béma, he had forgotten how blasted _happy_ the sight of her made him. Even mussed from, well, whatever she had been doing, she was one of his favorite sights in the world. The misery which he had seen in her grey eyes at Éowyn's wedding was lessened somewhat, he saw, but still a shadow remained. She was biting her lip as she gazed up at him, clearly uncomfortable, and his heart softened. He offered her a smile, and she started in clear surprise.

"I am happy to have a tour while my rooms are prepared," he said. "Though as soon as I can—I should like a bath. It has been a long road, and the spring has been infernally warm."

"Oh, I _know_! Er—about the unseasonable warmth, I mean, to say; not the road, obviously!" Lothíriel tittered nervously, hastily tugging her rolled sleeves down. An endearing sight indeed! "That is—" she added quickly. "I have been in the gardens, you see—some of the plants are ready for harvest. I help the apothecary, when I can. He—he is old and does not see well."

That was good, Éomer thought. Had the apothecary been young, he would have felt envy for the lucky bastard to have Lothíriel's company. And if the man was half-blind, all the better.

"Shall we?" he asked after a pause.

"Oh—yes, yes!" She gestured for him to accompany her, and hesitating only a moment, Éomer offered his arm for her. "Oh! I couldn't!" Lothíriel declaimed, spreading her dirty fingers wide. "My hands—you see?"

"I see," Éomer said solemnly. "But clearly you have not seen my tunic. I have been sleeping out of doors for many days; I am no standard of cleanliness."

Her lips twitched, and that familiar sparkle was in her eyes before she shook her head. "It would still be rude of me," she insisted.

"Nay." And he picked up one of her clammy hands and placed it firmly 'round his arm. "There. My sleeve is no filthier."

Lothíriel laughed then, a genuine laugh—and he felt his heart thump faster. He had missed her laugh; he had missed _causing_ her to laugh. It was a treasure to hear. _She_ was a treasure.

Éomer was a fool for coming to Dol Amroth. He would never be able to resist her.

But did he wish to?

The beauty of this palace by the sea intensified as Lothíriel led him further in. Birdsong warbled all around them, and he wondered how and why birds had gotten indoors, but the curiosity was soon explained. The southern corridors were open to the sea, affording a fantastic view of the stretching Bay of Belfalas below white cliffs. When he glanced up, there were nests in the curves of the ceilings. Éomer imagined that during storms or rain such openness might present a problem, and he did not hesitate to point this out to the princess.

"Small rain showers rarely enter the corridors," she told him, pulling him towards the columned view and pointing above their heads. "The overhangs extend quite far, you see? When the rare hurricane is on the horizon, thick sheets of canvas are fastened to the walls to block the windows. And there are many corridors in my father's house," Lothíriel added with a smile. "One may simply take another route."

"Ah. That would be the simplest." Éomer leaned his head out further, glancing down and immediately regretting it. His head swam with dizziness at the unfathomable height to the sea below and straightened quickly.

"The gardens next, I think," Lothíriel said, and he spied a dimple in her cheeks. She was amused by him—that was good. They continued in silence until they came to a high carved archway which led into an open courtyard filled with greenery and bright blooms of color. Here was the sun was especially bright, and Éomer shielded his eyes from the sun to glance around. To his surprise, there was a hunched figure in black several feet ahead of them, and he heard Lothíriel sigh as they continued. She knelt beside the man, for surely it was a man crouched on his feet, and she picked up something which flashed in the sunlight.

"Here are your spectacles, Malbeth," she said loudly, and the man looked up. His hair was steel grey and his face lined with wrinkles. He put out a crooked, dirt-covered hand to take the spectacles—and missed by several inches. Éomer could see Lothíriel's smile even from above as she placed the spectacles on the man's nose for him.

"Oh! Hello, princess," he said, blinking at her. "Are you back so soon? Whyever were you called away?"

"So soon! I am sure it has been a half hour. Our guests from Rohan have arrived early," Lothíriel said kindly, now picking up a pair of shears and a dull knife, which she tucked into a cloth bag at Malbeth's waist. "Did you find everything that you needed?"

"Surely I did! Except I could not, for the life of me, find where we planted that blasted comfrey! I was so sure that we marked it out clearly and that I memorized the map you made for me in the autumn. But—"

"It is here, Malbeth," Lothíriel said gently, pointing towards purple blossoms directly in front of them. "It appears that you lost your spectacles in the comfrey itself!"

"Oh! Oh, dear, oh dear me. How silly! Perhaps I need stronger spectacles."

The princess laughed at this, and Éomer smiled as he watched her retrieve the knife from the baffled man and cut the comfrey herself. The flowers were placed in a woven basket which sat on the ground, bulging with cut foliage, and she returned the knife.

"Thank you, princess. I am sure that your father would send me to the stocks for my idiocy if you were not here to help me."

"I am sure he would not! Your salves are best in the principality." Lothíriel clasped onto Malbeth's elbow to help him to stand, which he did laboriously and with a groan. She gave him the basket of flowers, and he patted down his black cloak absently.

"Your shears and knife are in your pocket, Malbeth."

"Oh! Thank you, again. Oh! Who is this?" The man finally noticed that he was not alone with Lothíriel, for now he was blinking up at Éomer and looking completely startled.

"I am Éomer, Master Malbeth," he said.

"Oh! _Oh!_ Éomer! I have heard that name before, I am sure. Lothíriel, is this your—"

"This is the King of Rohan," Lothíriel interrupted loudly, with a definite pink flush to her cheeks.

"Oh!" Quickly the man made a credible bow. "Sire, I do apologize—"

"There is no need," Éomer said with a laugh. "I am not in the habit of punishing people for not recognizing me on sight, and certainly not in a nation other than mine."

There was a giggle hidden behind the princess's hand, and Malbeth gave a beaming smile. "Lothíriel was right about you," he said, unheeding as her cheeks turned a bright pink and she gave a strangled choke. "Such a good nature! But now I must be off. Good day to you, sire. Princess."

Lothíriel farewelled Malbeth fondly though still clearly embarrassed, watching his back as the apothecary left, shuffling into the house with his dark robes sweeping behind him. But Éomer was watching _her_ , and the wistful affection he saw in her eyes. She must have noticed him staring, for she cast him a quick, tight smile.

"Malbeth is a dear friend," she said, as if in confession. "He is very absent-minded, I am afraid, but truly genius in his work."

"I see," Éomer said, picking up her hand again to continue their wandering. "Are you his apprentice, then? For it seems you assist him quite a lot."

"Oh, I do! But I am no apprentice. It would be odd for a princess to be an apothecary; do you not agree?" Her head was tilted curiously, gazing up at him.

"I could not say. I am not an expert of princesses." His tone was perhaps more bitter than he intended, and immediately he smiled down at her to belay any discomfort. "I am sure you can follow whatever path you choose," Éomer added.

Her eyes lowered to the stone path in front of them, and she bit her lip. "Well," Lothíriel began, and hesitated. Then in a rush, "I may very well choose such a path, for there are few other options."

Éomer waited a moment, then asked, "Why do you not marry?"

The question fell like a stone between them, and the ensuing silence grew thick. Their steps slowed as the path curved to an outlook to the sea, a marble railing marking the cliffside. Lothíriel stared up at him, her jaw twitching. But when she spoke again, her voice was level.

"The war killed many young men. There are not enough for every young woman to have a match."

"But surely—as Imrahil's daughter—" Éomer could not speak more plainly for fear of betraying his own intensifying curiosity.

"As the youngest of my father's children, there is no real need for me to wed," Lothíriel said stiffly. "I have work aplenty here." Her voice hardened as she added, "I think _you_ might be the better person to question upon this topic, for you are king and are obliged to provide Rohan with a queen and an heir. Why do _you_ not marry?"

He paused, gazing into her grey eyes. There was hurt there, and defiance. He hardly knew what to say, or what to think. And so he spoke his true feelings, his hand tightening on hers. "I cannot marry. For my heart is not mine to give."

There was the softest intake of breath and she blinked owlishly up at him.

"Ah— _oh_. Well, I suppose that may present an obstacle. The gardens are quite nice, are they not?" Lothíriel's voice rose in volume as they continued walking, her eyes determinedly looking away. "When my brothers return from Pelargir, we will take you on a ride to Ulmo's Temple; it is fifteen miles north of the city and quite beautiful, even if it has been in ruins for centuries. And of course, you will want to see the beaches, and to swim in the ocean. It is quite nice, and—"

Her nervous babbling filled Éomer's heart with relief, and he smiled to himself as he listened to her. She was not indifferent to him, just as he had hoped. Her cheeks for red, and her fingers were clenched on his arm despite his surety that she was not meaning to. Even Malbeth would recognize her symptoms as nerves.

Whatever panic his arrival sent the palace of Dol Amroth into, everything appeared to come together flawlessly. After his meander with Lothíriel was complete, she directed him to his private chambers and subsequently fled with a mumble about seeing that supper was in hand. Éomer smiled to himself as he washed and changed into clean clothing.

Supper that night was a small affair; it was held in the prince's private dining chamber, with only Imrahil, Elphir and his wife and children, Lothíriel, and Éomer present. Éomer knew Elphir least of the prince's progeny, and found him an engaging man, open-natured like his father and sister, though he spoke more solemnly than his relatives. There was a general discussion of the different watchtowers which dominated the coast of Belfalas; Éomer was intensely curious of patrol routes on the sea and sea-battles, and there was no shortage of stories from the prince and his heir.

He could not help noticing, however, the silence of the princess. She spoke rarely, and usually to Elphir's wife Nessiel. Éomer was not entirely certain _why_ , though he could guess that perhaps his presence discomfited her, or she did not care for stories of battles. Instead she tickled the chin of the baby Nessiel held on her lap, giving her smiles and attention to the child. Elphir's eldest son, Alphros, was old enough to sit properly in a chair, staring at his grandfather with rapturous attention.

"—the lighthouse burned down soon after, a century or so ago. It was never rebuilt, oddly enough, considering the strategic location of the outpoint," Elphir was saying, with a glance at his father. "It may be wise now, Father, as it does face Umbar."

But Imrahil was shaking his head in disagreement. "I shall not," he said firmly. "There are too many tales of ghosts; no soldier would wish to man such a location!"

"Ghosts?" Éomer asked in surprise. Alphros's mouth fell open and his lips formed the word _ghosts_.

" _Tales_ of ghosts," Elphir clarified with a frown. "But only tales."

"And yet, tales are enough to shake the stoutest heart," Imrahil said wisely. "Very few brave that cliffside. Lothíriel, I believe, has ridden there before—Lothíriel?"

The princess started, evidently not expecting to be drawn into the conversation. "Indeed, I have," she said. "Many times. It is a beautiful place; covered in poppy and anemones, and the cliffside white and unmarred."

"And are there ghosts?" Éomer could not help asking, smiling across the candlelit table at her.

"It depends who you ask," she said primly. "But I saw none."

Imrahil was casting a look between princess and king, his eyes glittering. "Tell Éomer the story, Lothíriel," he urged. "I am sure you will do it the most justice."

Lothíriel's cheeks were pink as she glanced briefly at Éomer before speaking, her expression unfathomable. "The sailors called it Jutting Point, as Elphir explained earlier," she said. "But those in the city called it Lover's Point. Many women would meet their soldiers there when the menfolk could not leave their posts."

The light in the room flickered, and even the baby grew quiet as she continued.

"When the lighthouse burned down, one soldier was caught in the blaze. It was a tragedy, to be sure, but the toll could have been much higher. His death was discovered and made known, but his betrothed was inconsolable." Lothíriel paused. "She threw herself from the cliffside and into the ocean."

Éomer felt heat crawling up his spine.

"And she died, naturally," the princess finished in a pragmatic voice, lifting her wine glass for a sip. "Anyways, whether it is true or not—it is certainly believed."

"I have heard that both died in the fire," Elphir said with a skeptical frown. "Which likely makes the entire tale untrue."

"Father," Alphros said in a hushed, squeaky voice, drawing all eyes to him, "Why did she throw herself off the cliff?"

"That is enough for tonight, I think," Nessiel said sternly to her son. "We ought to go—"

Alphros's lips immediately formed a frown. "But I do not _want_ to go—"

The boy's whining protests and his father's loud voice set the baby crying. Her small arms flailed, knocking over a glass of wine. Nessiel tried to catch it, but was too late, and it splashed onto the tablecloth and her dress. Elphir stood quickly to move a stunned Alphros from his chair before the wine leaked on him, and Imrahil barked for a servant. Éomer could only watch, feeling useless.

Lothíriel lifted the baby from Nessiel, settling the squalling child into her arms comfortably, clearly crooning to her but inaudible over the chaos in the chamber. Éomer watched her movements as she rocked the baby, kissing her head and cheeks until at last, the wailing ceased. There was a sharp pang in his stomach and a wrench in his heart at the sight. Had she married him, she might be consoling _their_ child…

"No harm done," Elphir said with an attempt at cheeriness, evidently disregarding his wife's stained frock. Nessiel's cheeks were pink as she apologized profusely to Imrahil, who now held Alphros on his lap away from the mess.

"It is quite alright," the prince assured her. "Between my four children, I am sure that we have ruined more than an entire household of linens."

"Nessiel," Lothíriel said gently. "Do go change into something dry in my chambers— it is nearest, and my maid is there; she will help you. You do not wish to remain in a stained frock, I am sure!" 

Nessiel's reply was weak. "Quite right. I—I will go. Oh, I _am_ terribly sorry—" Elphir, having attempted blotting her dress, was quick to take her away, and the chamber quieted again at their departure. Lothíriel was pacing the room, and in the silence Éomer could hear her sing—

 _I often go walking_

 _In meadows of clover_

 _And I gather armfuls_

 _Of blossoms of blue…._

 _I gather the blossoms_

 _The whole meadow over_

 _Dear child, all flowers_

 _Remind me of you…_

Lothíriel's gaze was on the baby, either unaware of unwilling to acknowledge Éomer's attention, though her cheeks were flushed. The feelings and regrets rolling through his chest caused his fingers to clench around the stem of his goblet, and for the hundredth time he wondered. Oh, how he wondered! Why had she refused him? And did she still love him? For her behavior in his presence was not of an indifferent heart...

Éomer felt Imrahil's eyes on him, and quickly looked away from the entrancing sight of the princess and the babe. He cleared his throat, offering the prince a forced smile.

"I will retire now," he said. "I am weary from travelling. I thank you for your hospitality, Imrahil."

"You are quite welcome. You may rest as long as you need before we, ah, overwhelm you with exciting experiences," Imrahil said with a grin.

Éomer was laughing as he stood. "I do appreciate that!" He started, then paused briefly as he turned towards the door. "And good night to you, Lothíriel."

The princess glanced at him, her eyes dark in the dim light, and nodded in return.


	21. Can't Say What Tomorrow Will Bring

_7 April 3019 T.A., Dol Amroth_

Lothíriel was not _displeased_ to face the prospect of a feast welcoming Éomer to Dol Amroth, not really. But no matter how she tried, she could not summon any detached and happy anticipation on his behalf; only a hollow ache. Together with Nessiel, she had made arrangements for food and music and flowers, and while normally such a task for honored guests would bring enjoyment, in this instance, it did not.

She bathed and dressed that night with especial care, all the while attempting to convince herself it was not _for_ Éomer, merely to present the best appearance to honor her father's house. This convincing did not go well—she chose a velvet, olive green frock in a new style; a tightly fitted bodice, which bared her shoulders but gave way to long, tight sleeves. The bodice flared from her waist, and beneath a matching skirt layers of sheer silk gave fetching volume, swishing around elegantly where she stepped. Slippers for dancing, and a lovely hairstyle which drew her lengths of hair behind her head, braided back intricately and falling in a long, loose tail to her waist.

It was tasteful, Lothíriel hoped. Certainly there were no vulgar ornaments to draw obscene attentions to her, and Nessiel had assured her when the frock was made that it did her figure very well. Perhaps some would think it _too_ simple for a princess, but she did not care what anyone thought. Except, if she were willing to admit it—Éomer.

The sun was already setting when her preparations were complete, and the dancing due to begin in less than a half-hour. As part of the host's family, Lothíriel was intending to arrive early, but before she could depart her chamber with her frayed nerves, her father knocked upon the door.

He entered bearing a velvet box under his arm, and curiosity overcoming her anxiety, Lothíriel welcomed him with a smile, standing from her vanity.

"You are as lovely as your mother was." Imrahil bent to plant a kiss on her head, his voice strangely hoarse. But he was smiling as he pulled away. "I have brought you a gift."

She recognized the velvet box from the secret spying she had done long ago; one of the many storage chambers in the palace held her mother's belongings. This one had been in a locked trunk (she had picked it open with a hairpin), one of the few that was not dusty, and from which she knew Elphir had chosen a spectacular ruby necklace for Nessiel when they had wed.

Imrahil unlatched the box, prying it open to reveal a beautiful, freshly-polished silver diadem. Pearls dotted the rim, and silver lines crossed in a unique and stunning pattern. More pears were set at the points, and tiny jewels surrounded them, making a shape reminiscent of stars with the pearly bellies.

"It was your mother's," he explained. "She wore it the day we wed."

Lothíriel was speechless. She could not fathom this generosity, not even from her father, and she gaped up at him.

"For you," he said again, amusement twitching his lips. "A simple 'thank you' will suffice, my daughter."

"But Father, this cannot be for _me_ —"

"I am not going to go through the hassle of putting it back into storage," Imrahil said testily. "Nor am I going to give it to anyone else. Amrothos already chose a gift for his bride, and this is too precious to save for Erchirion's wife, wherever _she_ may be hiding from the lad. If you are too surprised to thank me, at least wear it tonight—then I will know of your gratitude."

"I thank you most sincerely. It is truly beautiful, Father," Lothíriel said properly, coloring a little at this speech. "But really—"

"Hush! No more protests. Will you set it in your hair, or shall I?"

"Oh, I will—I would not have you mussing my hair after the careful attention it required—"

Imrahil laughed at her playful joke, and Lothíriel lifted the crown from the box. Unable to look away from its sparkling, shining lines, she sat back at her vanity, looking into the mirror to place it carefully amongst her dark braids.

"It suits you."

Her nerves returned, more twisting and turning than ever, and taking her father's arm they set out for the feasting hall at once. Lothíriel felt conspicuous wandering the corridors dressed so richly, but she forced herself to remain calm—it was a night for opulence. She would not be noticed amongst so many others. Even Imrahil was wearing his finest clothes, and a silver circlet on his brow. Lothíriel's breast swelled with pride to be with him. Whatever agony she had to hide that night to see Éomer fawned over by the alluring ladies of Dol Amroth, she would be pleased to be part of her father's great house.

The great feasting hall was bursting with light and color; hundreds of candles lit the room, and bright torches glittered from sconces along the mighty marble pillars. The shadows of every corner of the arched ceiling were driven away by a dozen chandeliers, and woven garlands of flowers covered the stink of numerous bodies. Already a low rumble of conversation filled the air, and Imrahil strode confidently through the mass, oblivious to his daughter's nerves. Many people inclined their heads as prince and princess passed.

Lothíriel sighed with relief when her father gave her arm to Erchirion. Imrahil stood upon the tall dais to welcome their guests from Rohan in a carrying voice. Her fingers clenched upon her brother's arm, but either he did not notice, or he felt it unwise to comment. Heads were turning towards where Éomer was undoubtedly standing near the dais, but she did not—could not—look, and Lothíriel found unwarranted interest in the pattern of tiles upon the floor. Hot prickles spread across her skin, and she began to wish she had brought a fan.

Amrothos and Careth were welcomed as well, and the young healer presented to the court as princess. Lothíriel did look up then—she could see Careth's flushed face through the crowd, and Amrothos patting her hand on comfort. As their father had said, Amrothos had chosen a set of their mother's jewels for his bride; sapphires glittered at Careth's throat, and Lothíriel smiled. She would welcome her new sister formally when she could.

Music began to filter from the balcony above, where many musicians bearing a variety of instruments sat. Louder conversations broke out around them now, and space was made for dancing. She let out a breath; she had yet to see Éomer, despite the obvious appearance he must give with his enormous stature and golden hair. But she was now better oriented to the overwhelming atmosphere, and Lothíriel could relax the set of her shoulders, gazing out at the crowd with reasonable indifference.

Elphir and Nessiel were some distance away, conversing quietly and laughing. Their children were absent from the festivities, and taking advantage of this, soon they joined the dancers. Amrothos, of course, could not dance, (at least not without great difficulty), but Lothíriel was sure he was not lamenting it one whit—he sat upon a chair by a pillar, having somehow convinced Careth to perch upon his knee. His wife was noticeably blushing, though they laughed and accepted congratulations from various guests.

Erchirion's mood was most like hers, she guessed. He looked utterly bored (likely not as difficult for him to pretend than herself), and after a moment asked her to dance. Lothíriel accepted levelly, determined to show no emotions she ought not to have—

At last she saw Éomer, and her face flushing hot, she quickly looked away. He was dancing with a lovely dark-haired woman, his smile very much in evidence. Her eyes began to burn, and in a croaking voice she engaged Erchirion immediately in a conversation about the drills he had done that day. But her thoughts were elsewhere—dancing a few feet away, to be precise—and her stomach was turning with nauseous misery.

Was she so surprised that Éomer must give his attentions elsewhere? He needed a queen, as he had so poignantly declared that day long ago on the rooftop of the library—and _she_ had refused. How could she feel such agonizing desire for something she could never have?

Lothíriel was distinctively unwell when the dance was concluded, which did not go unnoticed.

"Are you feeling ill?" Erchirion asked, his eyes filled with concern as he took her arm to lead her away from the dancing. "Can I fetch you water? Food?"

"Thank you, Erch. Water would do very well."

He left at once, and she was left standing, wavering, near the wall. The lights were too bright; she blinked in discomfort, shifting her weight as she clasped her hands together awkwardly. She hoped she did not see Éomer again—

Such was her luck that he happened to stride in front of her in that very moment. Lothíriel's heart leapt into her throat at his handsome figure, and he cast her a dismissive glance without a pause in his steps. So _this_ was what she had earned of him. Desperately she wanted to weep, but pride kept her standing, her trembling chin in the air—

Éomer paused, and then turned back, retracing his path to gaze curiously at her. "Lothíriel?" he asked, his voice hesitant, disbelieving.

She swallowed. "Yes?"

He blinked. "Béma! I did not recognize you." And he made straight for her, and that wonderful, heart-warming smile was on his face as he bowed low to her. Lothíriel could only stare, her knees creaking as she curtseyed as was proper. But the edge of her nausea was eased by his easy manner. "Do you know," Éomer said, barely suppressing a beaming grin. "I have seen you in many forms, Lothíriel, but never a trueborn princess. Will you forgive me?"

"Of course!" She returned his smile, holding his warm, green gaze as her legs positively trembled.

"You are lovely, princess. But then again, I have always thought that of you, even when you wear a stained apron, or riding clothes that better befit a stablehand than a princess."

Lothíriel flushed. Was that what he truly thought of her? Before, she might have expected him to be teasing, though now she wondered—how well did she know Éomer anymore? But he was smiling.

"I have never seen you wear a stitch of green, either," Éomer added. "It looks well on you. And I must compliment the precise shade of your frock, for it is oddly familiar." And he broke into a real grin then. Lothíriel blinked in confusion, and then her eyes rested on his velvet tunic. Oh! Oh, dear. There was barely a discernable difference in the shades of green they wore, though his was complemented by a chestnut-colored cape fastened to his shoulders. He was so wonderful to look at, her heart beating so fast that she nearly forgot to answer, forcing a nervous laugh.

"What a coincidence!" she managed to say. "Did you send a spy to determine the color I would wear tonight? I might have expected such mischief of Amrothos, but never you."

"Oh, aye, I did," Éomer laughed. "And then I had this tunic made in a matter of minutes, so that I might match you tonight." He was assuredly teasing. It was obvious from his grin to his twinkling eyes. But Lothíriel was not bothered by it; how much she would rather have his teasing than his derision and coldness!

"Then I am complimented by your imitation."

"As well you should be." He reached for her hand, holding it tightly in his warm one. Lothíriel, who knew how clammy her palms were, felt a rush of embarrassment before he spoke again. "Will you dance with me, princess?"

Her heart thumped. "Oh! Certainly, if you wish."

Éomer led her again to the dancing, and she forgot Erchirion completely. Oddly, her nausea was fading and comfort was stealing over her under Éomer's eyes. She could not help smiling as she was drawn into his arms, feeling his radiating warmth and strong arms around her.

"Why do you smile?" His voice was low and gentle, and more pleasant warmth spread across her skin.

"It is merely a lovely evening," Lothíriel said honestly, though she could not have said so ten minutes earlier.

"It has improved, yes." Éomer's lips formed a thoughtful frown, and he added, "I had intended to dance first with Nessiel, then Careth, and then you. I was informed that following such hierarchy was the proper protocol. But all three of you were spoken for at the onset of the first dance! I could hardly believe my misfortune."

"Oh?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. "I suppose it _would_ be protocol, as you are our highest-ranking guest. But I did not notice, and I daresay few others must have either."

He smiled in relief, and she tried not to notice his hand on her waist, pulling her closer. She nearly stumbled over her feet, and flushed. "I thank you for such an assurance," Éomer said. "I can be easy, now. I hope I did not offend by dancing with Lady…Lady—Béma, I cannot remember! Do not tell anyone, I beg of you! Now I truly _am_ ashamed."

Despite herself, Lothíriel laughed aloud. "There are too many courtiers for you to be expected to remember everyone. I am sure no one will judge you so harshly."

"I am grateful for that!"

It was easy to forget herself, whirling around in the hall in Éomer's arms. She gazed up at him, a smile lingering on her lips (and how strange it felt to smile for such a long time!). His eyes were clear, boring into hers with an oddly gentle intensity as they roved over her face. In that moment, it felt as though the last years had not happened—that they had never suffered a breach—

But they _had_. Immediately Lothíriel's gaze dropped, and she felt heat suffuse her face. She could not allow herself to be drawn back to Éomer, no matter how tempting it was! She had botched that chance entirely; he was only being kind, he did not want her any longer. The lifting of her spirits since he had greeted her collapsed inward.

"Are you well, princess?" His voice was filled with nothing but concern, and she weakened—and steeled herself.

"I am well," Lothíriel said politely, glancing back up briefly to his face before focusing on a point beyond his shoulder. She could not look at him without wanting him. She breathed deeply, and forced a smile. "Are you enjoying yourself in Dol Amroth, my lord?"

"Aye." She could hear a frown in his voice, though she could not see it. "I like Dol Amroth very well. I have never forgotten your descriptions of it; I find that you did your beloved city justice. I am glad that I could finally see it."

She flushed, her eyes flitting to his face, his handsome face, and she straightened her shoulders and choose to look at the neckline of his tunic. That could not be _too_ distracting, and likely less rude. Keeping her voice level, Lothíriel said, "I am happy to know it."

He made a grumbling _hmm_ in response, and she saw a flash of his throat. Her fingers clenched in his, and she swallowed to clear her own throat. She would look at the dancers around them, then, pretending curiosity.

"May I ask from where you have procured such a striking crown, princess? I am fascinated by it; I have rarely seen pearls in my lifetime."

"Oh! It belonged to my mother." Lothíriel spoke hastily, relieved to be on a safer topic. "My father presented it to me this very evening as a gift. He—he told me that she wore it at their wedding."

There was a pause, and in a low voice Éomer finally spoke. "If she looked anything like you, princess, then it is no wonder your father loved her so. It looks as though you are crowned with the very stars of Varda against your black hair."

She tried not to flush this time, but to no avail. Her face was hot. Faramir's voice echoed suddenly in her mind, her ears buzzing: _I dreamt of you as your own woman, looking exactly as you do now, yet you wore a crown of stars._ Is this what Faramir had seen? Lothíriel could not begin to fathom it, and her discomfort grew.

"My lord, you flatter me far beyond common politeness," she forced herself to say coolly. "Really! I daresay Varda herself will not appreciate such words coming from your lips."

"My care is for _you_ , princess; not to any distant goddess." There was the weight of insinuation in Éomer's voice, and she pretended not to hear it. She gave a vacant smile, hoping it was enough.

The song ended only a few moments later, and relief and disappointment weight down her limbs in equal amounts. Lothíriel forced her breathing to steady, taking Éomer's arm with the briefest brush of her fingers as he led her away. Erchirion, thankfully, waited for her, looking annoyed but not overly so.

"I was wondering where you disappeared to," he said as they approached. He held two cups of water in his hand—well, one cup of water, and one empty glass. Lothíriel released Éomer's arm at once, taking the cold cup instead, willing the heat in her hands to disappear. There was an awkward silence.

"I ought to go," Éomer said quietly, and if she knew him at all—he was speaking with utmost reluctance.

"There are many a lady to dance with!" Erchirion responded cheerily. "'Twould be a shame to avoid them."

Lothíriel sipped at her water to prevent herself from having to speak. She observed Éomer over the rim of the glass, and she saw the hurt in his eyes, and his haste at hiding it. He bowed shortly to her, nodded to Erchirion, and turned on his heel to leave. Her own heart ached, and she wished he had not asked her to dance. It had given rise to her hopes…and now she must suppress them.

The sooner he departed Dol Amroth, the sooner she could attempt to find her peace.


	22. Holding Your Scarred Heart in Hand

_8 April 3021 T.A., Dol Amroth_

Éomer laced his fingers behind his head, gazing up at the canopy of his opulent, and admittedly frivolous, bed. It was blue, of course, as were most of the decorations in Imrahil's house. Somehow it did not surprise him.

Dawn would be approaching soon; it had been a long night of dancing and feasting and mingling with people he barely cared to know. But he played his part as King of Rohan, just as he ought. And somehow, despite it all, he had only felt his true self when he had had Lothíriel in his arms.

Lothíriel, Lothíriel! Even her name made his heart beat faster. He smiled up at the canopy, remembering how beautiful she had been that night. The lovely shade of green she'd worn had complimented her skin perfectly; she had glowed in the torchlight. He had been startled to see her so _different_ than he was accustomed to, but the urge to hold her, to tangle his fingers in her hair, to kiss her…that had not changed. She was still his Lothíriel, and still he loved her.

It was a relief to admit how deeply he still cared for the princess. His love had not changed since Minas Tirith those years ago, unless it had strengthened with time and stubborn denial. Still his heart burned as fiercely as ever for her, for the woman he had loved for so long…despite the months that love had slumbered.

He remembered the curve of her throat, the shadows the candlelight had cast across her skin. The glitter in her eyes, which had appeared so dark when they rested upon him, and the feel of her slender waist. But he also remembered her stiffness, her distance…the indifference she pretended. The yearning which drew him to her, drew her to him, he was sure…

Éomer found no sleep that night, but when he rose from bed at dawn he did not feel the least bit weary. He splashed water on his face and dressed for riding, penning a brief note of explanation where he was going. A hard ride might ease his mind from lingering on Lothíriel…but he hardly cared if it did or not. He wanted her in his thoughts.

The trek along the cliffside disappeared beneath Firefoot's eager hooves. With the golden dawn breaking across the sky, the sea shimmered in shades he had not known to exist. It was a lovely, yet reverent sight; he paused at the top of a bluff to gaze out at the Bay of Belfalas for several moments, until the sun yellowed and the sky turned blue.

There was much exploration to be done in this wilderness. Many paths twisted and turned and crossed; the road he had taken with Erchirion and Lothíriel was only one of them. Éomer turned east, to open plains and eventually to rolling hills. The sea disappeared along with its salty breeze, but was replaced by greenery all 'round, more wildflowers and patches of forest where no man lived. He rode on 'till noon, absorbed within his own thoughts, before deciding to turn back.

Éomer dismounted, walking out his stiff legs and allowing Firefoot to rest beside a bubbling brook by a copse of trees. He drank the sweet water, splashing some on his face; the morning had grown hot! If this was merely spring in Dol Amroth, he was thankful he had not come later in the season.

There were provisions in his saddlebags, and he ate beneath a tree, feeling nothing short of lazy. This sort of solitude was rare, and he could not help but enjoy it. He was on no-one's time but his own, and when he was ready, he mounted Firefoot once more and rode back west.

The trek back was longer than he expected; the afternoon waned before they saw the sea again. Firefoot was finally wearying. Éomer was certain that a direct ride north, once they reached the cliffs, would lead them back to the palace. But while he was searching for that road, an odd sight caught his eye.

A decrepit tower of marble, set upon high bluffs, just on the edge of the cliffside. Curious, for he had heard no mention of ruins by Imrahil nor his family, Éomer turned Firefoot towards it. To his surprise, upon coming 'round the north side of the building, he saw a horse tethered outside. A familiar horse—Wilwarin. He dismounted, winding the reins on the same ragged tree branch, and stepped through the crooked doorway with great curiosity burning in his veins. There was no hesitation, no question of finding Lothíriel. He knew she was there, with the same certainty that he should speak to her. Were Éowyn to see him in such a mood, she would laugh and call him fey—but Éomer did not care.

It had once been a lovely building, that much was sure. The faded stone bore marks of having been carefully carved; winding designs and symbols he did not recognize surrounded him. He stepped through the overgrown ground, skirting fallen stones from the crumbling ceiling. Ivy had claimed the south-facing wall, and flowers burst between stones and distressed wooden planks. It was a single chamber, he had to guess.

Éomer stopped where he was, at last seeing Lothíriel ahead of him—she was standing before the western wall, from which was carved a large overlook to the sparkling sea below. Had she heard him approach? He did not think so, and cleared his throat.

She startled, whirling around before blinking in pure astonishment to see him a few feet away. Then her astonishment turned to annoyance, and finally anger.

"Why are you here?" she asked, and her voice was accusatory. He decided not to be offended by this; it was clear she had not expected company. Indeed, it was likely she had been avoiding it. So he merely said,

"I was passing by. I was curious to explore this—what is this, exactly?"

"It was a temple of Ulmo, many centuries ago. Completely out of use."

"I had guessed as much," he said, withholding a twitching smile. She frowned at this, turning her back upon him and crossing her arms tightly, as if to protect herself. A few moments of silence passed, until she spoke again.

"Why do you do this?"

Éomer shrugged, though her back was to him and she could not see. "I like to ride," he said. "It—"

"That is _not_ what I mean." Lothíriel's voice turned sharp, and she threw an angry glance over her shoulder. "Since you appear to be determined to make light of it, I will speak plainly: why are you tormenting me so?"

" _Tormenting_ you? Why, I am only being kind."

"Your kindness hurts." Her voice was nearly whipped away by the breeze, and Éomer strained to hear. "I do not understand why—after—after _everything_ —why you are treat me as though nothing has happened. Why must you be so oblivious—so _kind_?"

"Should I not be?" Éomer asked mildly. "I would hope that you know me well enough to acknowledge that I am not in the habit of unkindness to those who are not my enemy."

"But I have done you wrong."

He noticed a rigidity to her shoulders. She was stubbornly standing her ground, and Éomer surmised that if wished to understand her...he must speak more plainly. He steeled himself and asked in a gentle voice, "Tell me, then. Why did you refuse me?"

Silence met his question. He gave her a long, steady look, which she met with determination, though there was a tremble in her lips.

"Please," he coerced softly. "May I not know the reason of my misery?"

A moment more she gazed at him, and then with a sigh her eyes drooped, and her shoulders slumped. "I was in mourning," Lothíriel murmured. "I saw death in the Healing Houses and the destruction of families and livelihoods and homes. When Amrothos lost his leg…I could hardly think! I—I felt that I had no right to be happy when everyone around me was suffering. And when he held rites for Boromir and my uncle...I suppose something inside of me shattered. I had only been pretending that all was well in the world...well enough that I could justify my own hopes."

Éomer listened to her patiently, his heart thumping with relief. Lothíriel's misery was all too-easy to understand, and how he wished he might have understood two years earlier! His assumption that she was fickle and capricious were unfounded.

"Then I simply asked you to marry me at the wrong time," he said.

"Yes." Lothíriel's legs were weak, drained from this honest telling, and she sank onto the mossy ground with a sigh. Knots were unravelling in her stomach, and for the first time in many months, there were no barriers around her heart. Éomer knew now, her reasons for refusing him. She could expect nothing more from him; it had been too long, and whatever his kindness, she did not think he would offer for her again, no matter her hope. After all, she had refused once...a man would be a fool to risk rejection again.

"I am sorry, Lothíriel."

She glanced up with a wan smile. Éomer's brows were creased, and he was frowning. "You have nothing to apologize for," she said. "For it seems the situation is to blame."

"Nay, I was too eager," he said. "I should have divined your feelings before speaking."

"My feelings have always been clear to you, I think," Lothíriel said quietly. "You knew that I loved you desperately, and would have married you in an instant had you asked on a different day. You know me...too well."

"Not well enough, evidently."

There was silence, and she heard Éomer sigh. Then he stepped forward, stretching out upon the ground as she shied away. His presence, so near, sent her heart racing and heat to spread across her cheeks.

"I was angry," he said by way of explanation, staring ahead of them at the decrepit south wall of the temple. "I did not understand, and so...I blamed you. I thought that you had stopped loving me, that you were young and fickle and did not know your own heart. But when I saw you in Ithilien, I realized you were suffering. Odd that your misery should bring me such hope, yet it did!" Éomer gave a hollow laugh. "My advisors were plaguing me to marry, to find a queen. I might have agreed, too, had I not realized that you were as unhappy as I."

Lothíriel blinked stupidly. His eyes were on hers now, boring into her with his usual intensity—blazing warmth, and fierce love. She was not mistaking it, she was sure—and her heart thumped faster. Éomer offered a tentative smile.

"Tell me, princess—was I wrong to hope?"

Her eyes burned with hot tears, and immediately he took her face in his hands, his gentle touch brushing away the moisture. "Lothíriel…" Éomer murmured. "Lothíriel, I love you. Do you not return my love still?"

Numbly she nodded, and the relief that simple action gave made her laugh suddenly; a strangled, desperate sound.

"I love you, Éomer," Lothíriel cried. "Oh, I have loved you for so long, and I fear I shall love you until I die!"

His fingers were replaced by his lips, and he kissed away every tear on her cheek as she clung to him, growing dizzy. His scent, his touch surrounded her and comforted her, as he always had.

Éomer's lips found her mouth, and Lothíriel leaned into him with a whimper. A moment later, or perhaps an hour, she did not know—she was tipped onto her back, laid gently on the soft moss. Her eyes fluttered open. Éomer's smiling face was above her own, and instinctively she smiled back as he brushed hair away from her face.

"Do not fear love, my dearest, sweetest girl! There is nothing to be afraid of, not when we are together."

She felt the strength of his arms underneath her hand, the fine weave of his tunic...the warm skin of his neck and his soft, golden hair as she tangled her fingers there. His smile grew feral, and he dipped his head to kiss her again, and again, and again—he held her tightly by the waist, their bodies melding together perfectly as they lay there, in the middle of the ruined temple with only the setting sun to see.

They wandered into the palace some hours later, hand-in-hand and looking utterly pleased. This was immediately taken note of by various peoples, and Imrahil did not bother hiding his relief when they declared to him privately their intention to marry. It was announced to the family at supper, and while no one was truly stunned (apart from a wide-eyed Careth), there was a clinking of coins beneath the table as Amrothos collected his winnings from Erchirion. This thankfully went unnoticed by the soon-to-be bridal couple, who were absorbed only in each other, speaking in low tones as if trying to make up for the months and years without each other.

Towards the end of the meal, when everyone's attention was elsewhere, Éomer lifted the thin chain from around Lothíriel's neck with attempted solemnity, breaking it and sliding his mother's ring into the palm of his hand. "I hope you have not grown," he teased, stroking the knuckles of her hand with his thumb. She laughed.

"I do not think I have! I suppose this shall be a test." And he put the ring on her finger, where Lothíriel had every intention of keeping it forever. She admired the candlelight glinting off the deep-red garnet, smiling so hard that her face ached. "I shall never remove it," she declared.

"Well—if you truly need to, I shan't be offended. One must be _sensible_ about these sorts of things, my sweet…"

She laughed. "I am not certain I can ever be sensible again."

"I suppose that is alright, too."

And he kissed her lips, lingering there despite the lack of privacy. They did not notice the various glances sent between the members of her family; bemused, revolted, smug, horrified, and shielded by a hand (Amrothos felt keenly about preserving his bride's innocence, which said bride did not appreciate).

Imrahil, for his part, felt the most satisfaction from this outcome, and did not mind witnessing a little kissing. Providing it was merely 'a little.' They ought to stop at any moment. He tapped his fingers on the rim of his wineglass impatiently, ignoring the burst of snickers from his sons. Really, this was getting out of hand—

Oh, great Ulmo below! Was this the reward for his daughter's happiness? He decided not to notice, and loudly, tried to begin a conversation on methods of preparing binding mortar.


	23. Epilogue: Love as it was Made to Be

_1st October 3021 T.A., Meduseld_

"It has been so long."

"A mere six years, my love. I would wait another six for you, but I am supremely grateful your father did not insist on a long betrothal…"

Lothíriel laughed quietly, picking up a grape from the plate between them. The candlelight around them shone brightly, casting into relief the sight of her new husband, sprawled on the rugs in front of the warm hearth of the king's bedchamber, and staring at her with twinkling eyes.

"You may not think six years is a long time," she teased. "But you are positively ancient! You see, I am still quite young, and I feel the effect of every single year _very_ keenly."

Éomer snorted, shaking his head. "Ancient? I have every intention of showing you just how young and spry I can be, my wife, as soon as you are done eating."

She flushed, ignoring his insinuation as she ate another grape as if she had not a care in the world. Of course, that she had been too nervous to eat supper at her own wedding feast had been a rather important care, and as soon as Éomer had entered the king's chamber and seen her pale face, he had immediately divined the cause and sent for a meal to be delivered. That kindness he had always shown her was one of the reasons she loved him so much, and she smiled at him. He returned it, reaching across to stroke the end of her loose curls, hanging across her breasts.

"I thought for so long that I had lost you forever...sometimes I wonder if this is merely a dream."

"'Tis no dream, husband," Lothíriel said gently, holding his hand tightly. "Else we have both given into madness."

His lovely green eyes darkened, and both nerves and excitement fluttered in her stomach. Éomer propped himself upon his elbow, leaning across the half-empty plate to brush his lips softly against hers. A sudden rush of yearning and desire made her legs tremble beneath her, and she sighed aloud. There was an answering groan from him, and she was pulled to her feet and swept into his strong arms. Lothíriel could feel his perfect warmth even through his loose tunic, and she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.

"A little looser, my sweet; a man must breathe." There was laughter in his voice, and she looked up to see his familiar, handsome smile. "I have longed for this night," he murmured. "I would not wish to begin it by losing consciousness."

A thrill of excitement, of anticipation and unknown pleasure made her tremble, and she was set down gently upon the massive bed. Éomer hovered over her for a moment, kissing her nose quickly before drawing away. Lothíriel could not look away as he doffed his tunic, throwing it haphazardly over a chair. He held her gaze for an intense moment, and she bit back a smile.

"What is it, wife?"

"I am merely admiring my new husband," she said tartly. "A bride may do that, you know."

"I should think she might be allowed. And may the bridegroom do the same?" Éomer's grin was feral as he crawled over her, the bed dipping with his weight. Her heart thumped, and she placed her hands on his chest, savoring the heat from his bare skin.

"Kiss me first," she was able to mutter, and he obeyed. His lips were gentle for a moment, and then as his weight descended upon her she gasped into his mouth as he deepened the kiss.

Lothíriel's entire being sang with pleasure. Everything was unfamiliar but so, so exquisite; Éomer's body so intimately pressed to her, the heat rising between them, the eager yearning in her veins to have him closer. The taste of his tongue, his soft beard rubbing against her cheeks, his strong hands tracing her curves, down to where her nightdress was bunched as he lifted it, exposing her skin to the air. She felt his muscles ripple under her touch, and the vibrating groan from his chest.

The rapturous pleasure he gave to her could not be described. It seemed that every feeling of love and desire she had for him was multiplying, manifested between them in ways she could scare comprehend, and it was natural for her to respond with her own hands, her own explorations. When at last Éomer joined with her, there was only a moment of discomfort, and then the sensations overwhelmed her, and she felt as a ship might, tossed to and fro on a stormy sea—she was not ashamed to cry aloud, when the agonizing rapture peaked—

"I was too eager," Éomer muttered some time later, his face buried in her neck and his breath hot on her skin. She was blinking dumbly at the canopy of the bed with wide eyes, unsure how to respond to what had just happened between them.

"Umm?" Lothíriel managed a half-hearted mumble. He lifted his head at this, grinning even with his mussed hair and his dark eyes, and she smiled.

"I was too eager," he repeated in a soft voice, reaching up to stroke her cheeks, her jaw. "I was going to admire you thoroughly, and see?—you still wear your nightdress."

So she did! Lothíriel laughed a little at this.

"Did I hurt you?" Éomer's inquiry belied a deeper concern, and he frowned, searching her face as if for a hint of pain.

"Not at all!" Lothíriel said, her hands tracing upwards on his bare arms. "I feel—quite good."

"Quite good? Is that all?"

" _Very_ good, then. I will admit to your being spry enough, for a man of your advanced years."

He burst into laughter then, sitting back and taking her hands to lift her to a sitting position. She winced; she was slightly stiff in some regions that she did not expect. Éomer drew the now-damp nightgown over her head and it was tossed away. She could hardly feel embarrassed to be completely without cover in front of him _now_ , and she smiled up at him. He returned it in a joyful beam, and gently lifted her face in his hands to kiss her tenderly.

He tipped her back onto the bed, holding her close as he drew the covers around them. Now that she was spent, she felt exhaustion creeping through her limbs; it had been a long day, and the comfort of the chamber—now her chamber, too—was more than enough to make her yawn. Éomer kissed the top of her head, pulling her close. She quite liked the feel of his strong arms around her, it made her feel safe and thrilled and loved, all at once.

"My wife must have her rest—good night, Lothíriel."

His _wife_. Lothíriel was dizzy with happiness. "Can we have a baby straightaway?" she asked impulsively. "We have delayed long enough to start our family, I think."

"We are certainly well on our way," Éomer said with a chuckle. "But you must know that those sorts of things take time. I certainly will not complain if I have you to myself a while longer!"

But as 'those sorts of things' invariably happened, almost exactly nine months to their wedding day and in the selfsame bed, a wrinkly, red-faced, squalling babe was placed in the arms of his mother. He had _not_ liked the washing he received nearly straightway after his entrance into the world, and he did not care who knew it. There was commotion all around as the chamber was cleaned post haste, but the queen hardly noticed, being too absorbed in her baby and crying her own tears, though these were of joy. At her sweet smell and her warm touch and her already-familiar voice, the new prince quieted, and she was crooning when the proud father was summoned—

 _I often go walking_

 _In meadows of clover_

 _And I gather armfuls_

 _Of blossoms of blue…_

Éomer could not take his eyes away from his son—his _son_! —as he sat beside Lothíriel, careful not to jostle her too much. When she looked up at him at last, her eyes were shining with exultant tears, and she was smiling.

"He is perfect, Éomer. I am sure of it."

He laughed, drawing her close and pressing a kiss to her damp forehead. "I do not doubt it," he said. "For he looks very much like you."

"Oh, _pah_. He has your temper, I am afraid; did not you not hear him wailing down the corridors?"

"Aye, I did. He will be a handsome boy, then, and struggle with self-mastery 'till he be grown. A hard life we have laid out for him, you and I."

Lothíriel was laughing, and she passed to him the wrapped bundle. Éomer took his son, feeling the slight weight and warmth of the small babe. The boy's eyes blinked open at this sudden change, and he stared up at his father with dark depths. Éomer's heart thumped oddly at the sight; he had held few babies in his life, and none of his own—it was a strange feeling, one which was coursing through his veins; fierce love and protection towards this child he had known for only a few moments. His wife leaned her head against his shoulder, and sighed happily, reaching over to stroke the baby's rosy cheek with a finger.

The afternoon sun was setting through the window to the king's chamber, now tidy and no longer bearing the signs of the feminine battle for life which had so recently raged. Only a family, content in this moment of peace, stronger for the trials they had passed through for this singular happiness, and facing their bright future with joyful anticipation.

* * *

 _Well, that's all folks. Hope that most of you enjoyed. Based on some of the reviews I got, there have been a few unhappy readers. I haven't addressed this earlier because I mostly don't care (it's been a lo-o-o-ong time since I wrote this story lol), but I'd like to point out something both brief and succinct: I did not write this story for you. I shared it with you. That is all. _


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